


The Heart of Erebor

by TheTimelessCycle



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Adventure, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stuff, We're going on a quest, that happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 263,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimelessCycle/pseuds/TheTimelessCycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: 'He could stand the wild light in his uncle's gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. He endured seeing the dragon's greed take them all. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn't expecting it to be this.'-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.</p>
<p>Inspired by the following quote from 'The Hobbit': "So grim had Thorin become, that even if they had wished, the others would not have dared to find fault with him; but indeed most of them seemed to share his mind-except perhaps old fat Bombur and Fili and Kili."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mountain of Madness

 

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 1**

**_ A Mountain of Madness _ **

 

Was it wrong to wish for madness?

Kíli was certain it could not be right, at least, but was it wrong? Was it wrong to wish to share in the euphoria and happiness that seemed so easily shared between the other members of the Company? Was it wrong to wish that the same odd gleam that had entered their eyes also shone in his own when he met his reflection’s gaze in a flawless bauble? Was it wrong to wish that he had felt anything but dread when his brother’s laughter rang out in the great treasure rooms of Erebor to a chorus of clinking gold?

It could not be _right_ , but was it _wrong_?

Troubled by dark thoughts, he had watched them pour over the gold and treasures of Erebor for hours on end, their eyes alight with a fire that would not dim. With a vague and growing sense of unease, he had watched his uncle smile over some trinket with a warmth once reserved for his family, and shuddered as he remembered seeing that same smile on Thorin’s face when he stepped forward to take the exiled King’s cloak that far-off day when they had gathered in Bag End. A growing hatred of the dragon’s treasure festering in his heart, he had watched them all succumb to that which had first brought evil into the mountain, Thror’s fall from grace into the sour pit of insanity brushed aside and forgotten.

He had watched, and witnessed, and stood by in silence, knowing it was not his place to intervene. That, no matter how much the dragon’s treasure appeared to him as a temptation wrought from shadow, he could not press his own concerns on those who were his elders in both age and experience. Though his heart cried out in protest, and every instinct inside of him commanded him to be away from this place and to take his fellows with him, he could and _had_ done nothing but watch, because the right was not his to declare this madness, and, even as he saw the slow advance of the foreign and unwelcome glint in his uncle’s eyes, he still could not bring himself to go against Thorin.

Not, at least, until he lost Fíli to the treasure as well.

His elder brother had at first appeared to be as resilient to its influence as he himself was, and they had shared their mounting concern in hushed tones over the campfire each night. Fíli had even resolved to try and speak with their uncle, to support Bilbo, who was always trying to sway the thoughts of the dwarves from the treasure to matters the hobbit considered more important. But that had never happened, and the final blow to Kíli’s strained limit came when Fíli, his own _brother_ , received a beautifully forged blade with a jewel encrusted handle as a gift from their uncle, and promptly fell to the same madness as the rest.

Kíli could do nothing but stand by and watchin horror, any attempt to caution, to warn, to divert stopped, cut off, or simply ignored. His words fell on deaf ears, his pleas received no response but their own echoes in the empty places that lay beneath the hollow mountain, and carved their deep recesses in his own chest. He longed for a warm glance from his uncle. A grin from his brother. A hand on the shoulder as one or the other passed him by. But it was like he had become invisible, as unseen as Bilbo was when wearing his treasured ring, and the others could not see him for the riches that blinded their eyes. He was alone, utterly, utterly _alone_ , and he began to wish desperately to be able to feel what they felt. To share the zealous greed that had overtaken them all. But he could not, and thus he wished for madness, because it seemed the only thing that could make him oblivious to the sickness taking all who surrounded him.

Matters only grew worse when news of Smaug’s death reached them. What should have been reason for celebration – the dragon’s death, at long, long last – became the very opposite, for the great beast had not been slain by their hand, and Roac spoke of armed men and elves coming to claim their own reward from the mountain. Thorin’s rapturous mood had darkened suddenly at the thought of outsiders daring to stake a claim on the great wealth he had _promised_ them for their aid, and Kíli had felt no relief when the uncrowned King’s thoughts drifted away from gold and gemstones, because they turned instead to the defence of his reclaimed kingdom. The gates of Erebor had been shattered a second time when Smaug took flight, and were now beyond repair, so Thorin had ordered the bridge spanning the small stream at the great city’s entrance destroyed, and the stream itself dammed, creating a large pool before Erebor’s face, with only a narrow span of dry land along the southern spur by which an approach could be made, unless one felt inclined to swim. The empty arch where the gates had once stood was then filled with a great wall constructed from the rubble, and Kíli had watched the last block fall into place with a great sense of dread.

There would be no leaving the mountain now. For any of them.

Their work had not been long completed when the first delegation of men and elves arrived and proclaimed both their surprise that the dwarves had survived and their concern as to why Thorin had chosen to seal himself inside his own kingdom. Kíli listened on in incredulous wonder as his uncle accused them all of treachery and attempted thievery, ignored every plea and demand made, no matter that some were well founded, and ordered the withdrawal of all from the valley. He did not need to hear the response of their neighbours to know such a command would not be followed, and it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the blazing fire that lightened one of the alcoves in the great entrance hall, taking a spot a fair distance from the others. Once, Fíli would have moved immediately to his side and sought to discover what was amiss, but his brother did not even glance his way this night, and he was left to his own dark thoughts.

Kíli had always been observant. Growing up in a village where all were larger and most a good deal stronger than he it had been a necessary skill. He had never desired to depend upon his brother for protection, and had learnt to make use of sharp words and swift feet to defend himself from the inevitable tormentors that populated every settlement in the world. He had learnt to spot the places where trouble lingered, and, if he didn't always avoid them, at least he knew they were there. As he grew older and taller he had found himself with less and less concern for those whose taunting and bullying had taught lessons that were swiftly learned, and he had turned his honed observational skills to other pursuits. His archery, tracking skills, and even his ability to navigate a foreign market place had all benefitted from his earlier experiences, and, even if he did not realize the significance of some things until after they had passed, he rarely missed them entirely, the incident with the trolls and the ponies notwithstanding.

He had never been told the story of Thror's descent into madness in its entirety, but young ears are often sharper than the elder generation expect, and Kíli had learnt a great deal by keeping his pricked. He knew that the gold sickness had led Thror to run first to his gold instead of his people when the dragon came. He knew the King's pining for his lost riches and his son's failing attempts to direct his attention to where it rightfully belonged had led to a great deal of responsibility falling on Thorin's shoulders far earlier than it should have. He knew Thror's madness had led him to try and reclaim Moria at the cost of his own life and those of countless numbers of his kin. He knew how heavily the grief and losses of that day still weighed upon his uncle, and could well recall the darkness that took Thorin on the anniversary of that bloody massacre each year.

Which is why he could not understand his uncle's determination to guard his hoard at the risk of a bloody war. Thorin, out of all their company, should have been the least willing to see the reclamation of Erebor tainted by needless violence. Should have known that enough blood had been spilt for the mountain's treasure, that of both man and dwarf, to last an age. But pride – _madness_ – stayed Thorin's hand and refused to bend even in the slightest, not even to save lives, and Kíli looked upon his uncle and no longer saw the great dwarf he had been in awe of since he was old enough to understand the rawness of the exiled King's power, but a dwarf he now both feared of and for. Thorin was hurtling down a steep path to a war they could not possibly hope to win, and Kíli could do nothing but brace himself for the death that was sure to come.

Shifting his weight, he let his gaze wander from the glow of the flames across those who had taken their seats around him. Even here and now, with the threat of an army on their doorstep, they were not free of the lure of the treasure, each of them bearing either a weapon or trinket from the pile to examine in the glow of the blaze, their eyes gleaming with a golden hue. Fíli had his new blade balanced across his knees, his fingers tracing the jewels that were inlaid in the handle, and, seeing the rapt look on his brother’s face, Kíli could stand it no longer. Rising swiftly and silently, he abandoned the lit alcove, taking the first passageway he knew for certain would not take him to the treasury, and hastening along its path. At length he found himself standing on a section of the wall set slightly to the side and above the front gate, a stiff breeze flowing between the weatherworn parapets, and throwing loose strands of hair across his face.

He sucked in a sharp, gulping breath, fighting back tears as he stared across the barren lands directly outside the mountain to fires that shone forth from the camps of their enemies. _Enemies_. Not goblins or orcs, but men and elves, living creatures who should not have been touched by the shadow of darkness, now driven to this senseless quarrel. And for what was this battle to be fought? A pile of gold from which they could easily spare enough to appease their neighbours? Money that could be spent in exchange for food, clothing, and the many other things that would be needed to make the mountain liveable again? They could not eat gold, as Bombur had muttered earlier that night whilst fixing another tasteless meal of _cram_ , and all the riches of Erebor would do them no good if they starved to death.

Was this, he wondered, what his uncle had meant when he expressed his doubts that Kíli was old enough to accompany him on this quest? Had it not been doubt of his abilities in the field, but rather a question as to his devotion to the gold that had stolen the hearts of the entire Company with a single glance? Was he, then, not a true heir of Durin, because he did not heed the siren call of a treasure that would be the death of them all? He did not know. The answers eluded him, and he wanted nothing more than to have never set eyes on Erebor. It was not a feeling fit for an heir of Durin to entertain, but he felt it nonetheless, and could no more _stop_ himself from feeling it than he could stop the others from trading their lives for a pile of precious metal that would be useless to them once they had passed on.

Stepping to the edge of the wall, he turned his back to the horizon, sliding down the parapets until he was seated with his back to the roughened stone as he buried his face in his hands and wept silently. He had never felt so lost as he did now, so small in comparison to the events unfolding around him. They had been hunted, attacked, thwarted, and imprisoned at every turn on their quest to reach the mountain, and now that they were here, at the end of their journey, they faced a danger far greater than any they had surpassed thus far. If Dain came and this turned to war… Kíli could not even imagine what might become of them all, but he knew any path that led to bloodshed between them and those who should have been their allies would not give way to a happy ending.

When Thorin had called all those willing to answer together to march upon Erebor, Kíli had been as eager as any other to be at the exiled King’s right hand. He had been young and foolish, unable to foresee the many dangers that would come, and he could look back now and almost smile at his own naivety in thinking the journey would be an easy one. But, even with all he had faced, if given the opportunity to travel back through time Kíli would still not have remained behind in Erud Luin as Thorin had once suggested. He would happily go up against the trolls a second time, dodge stone giants in the Misty Mountains, face the threat of the Goblin King and his minions, fight the spiders of Mirkwood, escape the elven King’s dungeon, and even challenge Smaug himself. All these things he would face, and face willingly, but the idea of war… the very _thought_ of it unleashed a fear within him stronger than any he had ever felt before. Any he had thought it _possible_ to feel.

It was a paralysing feeling. A terror so great it formed a dark and bottomless hole that effortlessly swallowed every shred of courage he possessed, and left him trembling like a frightened child without a soul to comfort him. He wanted Thorin. He wanted Fíli. But most of all he wanted to be away from this mountain, and the crushing weight of the dragon’s curse that had fallen upon it and the riches it held. He would have paid any price for that. For the chance to see his kin and friends free of the bewitchment.      

Deep in his own misery, he did not heed the slight scuffle of unshod feet on stone, nor did he notice the shadow that fell across his seated position, and it was not until a soft voice interrupted his solitude that he pulled himself far enough from his dolour to register the presence of another.

“Kíli?”

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the lower half of the hobbit’s waistcoat. For a brief moment, he had almost dared to hope it was his brother who had come in search of him, as it _should_ have been, but the madness had gripped Fíli in a hold as tight as that it held over Thorin, and gold lingered more often now in his brother’s thoughts than Kíli himself. He choked on that thought, fighting another exhibition of his grief, and the fabric obscuring his vision shifted as Bilbo edged his weight from foot to foot, breaking the silence again a moment later.

“I… That is to say… Are you alright?”

“Are any of us?” he retorted blankly, letting his head fall back against the stone as he closed his eyes, hoping the coolness radiating off the mountain’s roots would ease the unrelenting, throbbing ache in his head. He could already hear the beat of war drums inside his skull, and thought he might be going mad himself. Mad with _fear_. “An army sits on our doorstep, Master Burglar, and, unless that magic ring of yours has more tricks than you have told, I doubt even you can make them disappear.”

It occurred to him then that even Bilbo had his trinket, even if not taken from the hoard of Erebor. The thought did not bring him comfort.

“Is it really going to come to war, though?” Bilbo asked, traces of the more nervous personality he had been when he joined their Company showing through in that single question. “Over a little gold? I mean, that bowman _did_ kill the dragon, after all. There should be a reward for that, shouldn’t there?”

“There should.” Kíli agreed listlessly, willing to give up his own share of the treasures of Erebor, or more, to make this entire mess go away. He just wanted this to _stop_. All of it.

“And it’s not like there isn’t gold enough to spare,” Bilbo continued, as though speaking to himself. "Thorin could pay them enough to build their city thrice over and still be one of the richest kings in Middle Earth, I’m sure.”

“You’re probably right.” Kíli didn’t know any more of the wealth of kings than Bilbo, but Erebor’s had always been legendary, and he doubted the tribute the people of Laketown sought would cause it to cease being so.

Bilbo, actually heeding his response this time, was silent for a moment, then spoke, “You haven’t… haven’t got what the others have, do you?”

Lifting his head slightly, Kíli finally met Bilbo’s anxious gaze, trying not to sound as bitter as he felt as he responded, “Why? What exactly do they _have_ , Master Baggins?”

“Well, I don’t know, exactly,” Bilbo admitted hesitantly. “But the way they look at that treasure…. and talk about it… and _hoard_ it. It… it reminds me of a dragon, really, meaning no offense, of course.”

“Of course,” Kíli mocked wearily. “It is not at all offensive to be compared to the scaled reptile that burned our home and threw us out of it before either myself or my brother was born.”

“I didn’t meant it like that.” The hobbit frowned. “I just…”

“I know what you ‘just’, Bilbo,” Kíli sighed, taking pity on the hobbit, and deciding sharing his misery around was not making him feel any better. “You are not wrong.” Staring past the Halfling and into the darkness, Kíli tried to picture what his uncle’s face had looked like before the gold fervour hit him. What the smile his brother reserved especially for him had reminded him of whenever it lit Fíli’s face. He could not recall either, and despair washed back in to claim him. “It is the gold sickness, I believe, though I have never seen it before myself, and I was never told it took to dwarves in droves. Thror had it, though Thorin spoke very little of what it did to him.”

“Drove him to make enemies where he could made friends, perhaps?” Bilbo suggested subduedly. To war?”

“Nothing so drastic.” Kíli offered him a wry smile. “That was saved for us.”

“Isn’t there something we can do, though?” the hobbit asked, always the optimist. “Some way we can convince them to change their minds before it’s too late?”

“I don’t think there’s a cure, Bilbo,” Kíli whispered quietly, lowering his gaze to the stone beneath him. “I don’t think we can fix this. In a few days or less, Dain will be here, and there will be war.”

Cold spread through him like a winter chill, and he shivered, feeling much younger than he had a right to. He was an heir of Durin, third in line to the throne, and nephew to Thorin Oakenshield, but he was _scared_. Scared beyond reckoning. He had seen battle before the quest to Erebor, and plenty on the road, yet the thought of an outright war, and not just a skirmish with a rogue band of orcs or goblins, was enough to almost make him quake in terror.

“Well, there must be _something_ Thorin would be willing to trade for peace,” Bilbo persisted, not so easily deterred. “Something he values enough that it would shake him out of this madness.”

“The Arkenstone,” Kíli breathed in slowly, considering that perhaps he was not so free of madness as he thought. “He might…” His words tasted like treachery, but he uttered them nonetheless. _Any price_ , he had told himself. But this? Could he pay this? “He might be willing to trade for that, but the men and elves do not possess it, and, knowing my uncle as I do, he could just as likely grow all the more stubborn if they did.”

“But there’s a chance?”

The question sounded innocent enough, but there was an odd light in Bilbo’s eyes. It was not the gold sickness Kíli constantly saw in the eyes of the others, but a different kind of madness, and the archer swallowed uncomfortably, wondering what he had just unleashed.

“A small one, maybe.”

Bilbo nodded to himself, turning away from Kíli to look out across the plain. His face was pulled into a deep, pensive frown, and Kíli thought it best to leave him to his thoughts as he turned to his own. He should have returned to the others by now, ready for the doling out of the night-time watch, but he could not bring himself to move, struck by an utter weariness that was more of the heart than the body.

“Kíli?” Bilbo’s voice, soft but determined, cleaved through the silence, sounding very small beneath the utter stillness that had reigned of late over the mountain. “Would you?”

Confused, he turned to stare up at the Company’s burglar, who was now leaning against the damaged parapets. “Would I what?”

“Trade the Arkenstone for peace?”

It was a momentous question, and he considered it carefully before making any sort of response. Fíli, had he been himself, would no doubt have laughed at _Kíli_ taking the time to think his answer through, but this quest and the danger involved had curbed much of his youthful brashness, and what he had still possessed when they reached the mountain, which, to be fair, had still been a goodly amount, had been swallowed swiftly by the grim depths he could not escape. But, how to answer Bilbo?

“I don’t know,” he said at last, in a hushed tone. “It is the crowning glory of Erebor, the Heart of the Mountain, the King’s stone. To Thorin it is worth more than any of the gold we have yet seen. I do not know if I could simply give it away as a means of pacifying our neighbours, no matter how righteous some of their grievances might be.”

“And what about what you said before?” Bilbo’s mind was running swiftly, Kíli could tell just from seeing that familiar spark in the hobbit’s eyes, but he daren’t yet guess what the little fellow was planning. “About Thorin perhaps granting gold to the men of Laketown if it was in exchange for the Arkenstone?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” he emphasized. “I said maybe, and this is all for naught regardless. They do not have the stone.”

Bilbo shook his head, waving his hands in impatient agitation. “But what if they _did_? You said yourself it is worth more to Thorin than all the gold in the mountain. If those men had the Arkenstone, Thorin would pay for it with gold. The men would have their treasure, Thorin would have the Heart of the Mountain, and all would be well.”

Kíli doubted things would be resolved so easily, but refrained from saying as much.

“What are you saying, Bilbo?” he asked cautiously, wary of the reply.

“Look,” the hobbit began pragmatically. “So far as I can tell, this ‘sickness’ that has stricken the others is going to make them quite happy to sit here beneath the mountain until the day their food runs out and they all die of starvation atop beds of gold, or until Dain arrives and there is a lot of fighting and death. That doesn’t seem to me a good way to found a kingdom, or even to reclaim one.”

“Blood is never a good way to buy power,” Kíli answered, certain he had heard the words uttered somewhere before, though he could not recall by whom. “I still do not understand how you mean to remedy that.”

“Well,” Bilbo hesitated, and the gaze he pinned Kíli with was obviously searching, assessing. The young dwarf waited out the hobbit’s scrutiny, refusing to lower his gaze, and, at length, Bilbo spoke again. “What if I told you I had in my possession something that could quite easily turn the tide of this whole sorry affair?”

Fíli may have accused his brother on numerous occasions of lacking tact, subtlety, and all round common sense at times, but Kíli was not dull of mind, and he had connected the dots in a matter of seconds, his mouth falling open in astonishment as he gasped.

“Do you mean to tell me…?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied uncomfortably.

“And you never…?”

“No.”

“Thorin doesn’t…?”

“Of course not!” the hobbit scoffed. “If he did I’m quite certain he’d have had me strung up by now.”

“The Arkenstone,” Kíli said the word reverently, knowing what power the very name of the jewel held over his uncle. “And you want to _give_ it to the army sitting on our doorstep?”

“So that they in turn can trade it for a fair share of the gold,” Bilbo explained, his chin set stubbornly. _“Something_ must be done, Kíli, or we’re all going to end up as dead as that dragon.”

It was treachery. It was _worse_ than treachery. It was treason to the dwarf who had all but raised him. To his brother. To every member of the Company and their forefathers before them. The very thought of handing such a prize, the value of which was unnameable, to their enemy was unthinkable, and yet… and yet Kíli could not do _nothing_. He could not sit by and watch the growing madness in the faces of all his companions. He could not simply let them die for a pile of cold coins and gemstones that would be worth nothing at all to them once they had passed into the next life.

“What...” he croaked the word, sick to his very stomach, but forced himself to continue. “What do you plan to do?”

“I’ll take it to their camp,” Bilbo said quickly. “There’s no need for you to be involved. I just need you to turn a blind eye during your watch so I can get out unseen. I’ll be back long before you’re due to wake the next watchman, I promise, and I wouldn’t involve you at all if I didn’t need a rope to get down. The Ring doesn’t hide rope you see, and…”

“I’ll go with you, Master Baggins.”

“What?” Bilbo stopped in midsentence, clearly surprised, and Kíli was equally astonished at his own sudden resolve.

“I’ll go with you,” he repeated firmly. “The Arkenstone is the heirloom of the House of Durin, that which grants the right to rule, and, if it is to be handed over to men and elves, even if only for a little while, it should be done properly.”

“Are you sure?” Bilbo peered at him uncertainly through the gloom. “You don’t need to have a part in this, Kíli.”

“He’s my mother’s brother,” Kíli reminded him, rising to his own feet and gazing down at the brave little hobbit. “And this dragon’s hoard has changed him, changed them all. I _do_ need to have a part in this.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Bilbo trailed away, still eyeing him uncertainly.

“I am sure,” Kíli declared with a confidence that was wholly absent inside of him. “Now, come. We’d best go down, or I may end up having no watch at all tonight.”

Was it wrong to wish for madness?

Yes.

Yes, it was.

For madness had already taken him.

 


	2. Betrayal in the Name of the King

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 2**

**_ Betrayal in the Name of the King _ **

 

 

He did not sleep at all that night, lying stiff as stone on his bedroll and staring blankly at the wall towards which he had pointed himself. He couldn’t bear to look at the other members of the Company, the thought of what he planned to do weighing heavily on his mind, and his stomach churning uncomfortably with more than just the familiar gnawing of a not-quite-satisfied hunger. His resolve wavered, dissolved, and was firm once more all in the matter of a few seconds, and he did not know if he could truly stand atop that wall and go with Bilbo as he had promised. He did not want to see it come to war, and something, somewhere inside of him knew it _mustn’t_ , but to resort to such an act of betrayal… It _burned_ him, scalding his insides to the point he had hardly been able to touch his meal at suppertime, and the little he had managed to swallow sat like a stone in his stomach.

He clenched his eyes shut as he heard footsteps approaching, and a grip he would have known anywhere landed on his shoulder. Fíli must have known by the sheer amount of tension in his form that his brother was not sleeping, and was certainly not at peace, and, as he rolled over to meet his brother’s blue eyed gaze Kíli found himself wildly hoping that his sibling would ask what was wrong. Would stop him from even having to go through with any of this by proving that he was still the brother Kíli knew and loved.

“It’s your watch,” Fíli told him, dashing with those three simple words each and every hope his younger sibling had dared to nurse. Kíli dropped his gaze to the floor, biting his lip as he simply nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Fíli lingered but a moment longer, before his hand slid away and he made his way towards his own bedroll.

Guilt clawing at his insides and ravaging his mind, Kíli climbed to his feet, slinging the bow, sheath, and quiver he had been forced to replicate in Laketown after losing the originals in Mirkwood over his shoulder, then making his way to the stairs leading up to the portion of the wall that lay directly above Erebor’s front gate. Lingering on the lowest step, he cast one last look back over the Company arrayed across the stone hall, each of them lost in slumber, wandering through dreams that were no doubt as full of riches as every waking moment, before turning his back on them all and climbing out into the night air.

There was no sign of Bilbo atop the parapets, and Kíli was forced to remind himself that they had agreed to wait a while after Kíli’s watch started before making their move. Restlessly, he marched back and forth across the stone balcony above the shorn up gates, his gaze never straying far from the twinkling lights further down the valley. That was his destination on this night, the enemy camp, and he had never been more loathe to reach his journey’s end. This would be but a short trip, nothing like the intrepid quest that had led them to Erebor’s doorstep, but it seemed so much more momentous somehow. Kíli supposed that the act of betraying all oaths and bonds he had ever made was meant to carry some sort of weight, but he wished it did not feel so much like that weight was _crushing_ him.

He heard Bilbo’s footsteps on the stairs, turning as he gratefully acknowledged the fact the hobbit had deliberately made enough noise so he would not be startled by the Shireling’s approach. Emerging onto the parapet, Bilbo’s eyes went immediately to the fires visible in the clear night, then, turning to Kíli, he did a sort of double take.

“Are you _absolutely_ sure about this?” he asked, sounding increasingly worried. “You’re as pale as my sheets back in Bag End, I swear!”

“We already talked about this, Bilbo.” His words would have been a great deal more convincing had his voice not shook at every syllable, but Kíli refused to back down. His brother’s actions when waking him for the watch had proven just how _wrong_ things were inside the mountain, and he did not want to see that wrongness spread further into the surrounding land than it already had, nor for it to cost him the lives of those he loved. “I _have_ to go.”

“Alright then.” Bilbo, thankfully, let it rest at that, removing a coil of rope from his shoulder as he moved over to the edge of the stone balcony. “Where’s the best place to tie this, do you suppose?”

The long hour he had spent waiting for the hobbit had not been ill spent, and Kíli had no trouble directing the hobbit as to the best location to fasten the line so that it would not come unfastened or fray on the sharp edges that protruded from the smooth stone. With the rope firmly tied and hidden from all but a discerning seeker, the two of them shimmied their way down the wall, Bilbo leading the way and Kíli following with a great deal less grace. It was not until his feet hit the ground outside Erebor that doubt struck him anew, and he stood rigidly, clutching the rope so tightly it tore into his hands as he took quick, shallow breaths, forcefully reminding himself of all the reasons this was _necessary_.

“Kíli?” Bilbo prompted at last, when just a little too much time had passed.

“I’m coming,” he assured the hobbit, releasing the rope one finger at a time, and stepping with difficulty away from the stone wall. “We’ll have to take the ledge around if we don’t want to get wet, or we could swim downstream. Either way we’re going to encounter sentries sooner or later, and they probably won’t be kind.”

“Are they ever?” Bilbo muttered, invoking the dark humour he had picked up from the dwarves during their journey. Kíli offered him a weak grin in response, a gesture he was sure was all but lost in the darkness, before gesturing for the hobbit to lead the way.

Still a creature of comfort even after all the toil and hardships they had endured, Bilbo naturally chose the drier path, and they picked their way in silence around the edge of the pooled stream, wary of being spotted by either friend or foe. The night was eerily still all around them, and it held a deep sense of foreboding, as if waiting for the grand clamour that would shatter its tranquil silence. Refusing to look back, and concentrating simply on placing one foot in front of the other as he followed behind the burglar, Kíli noticed the sentry a second later than he should have, and had to force his itching palms not to seize his weapons as the watchman was joined by three others, all four of them clad in an elven uniform too familiar to miss, with arrows already to the string.

“Well, well,” said the first, viewing them with an unreadable expression. “And what do we have here? Spies? Or simple cowards fleeing the battle?”

“Neither,” Kíli replied steadily, his doubts and fears put aside for the moment as he stepped forward to stand level with Bilbo, staring the elves down with the contempt he believed they deserved. Fíli may have been the one groomed to inherit the throne, but Kíli had watched his brother closely over the years, as well as his uncle, and he had learned a great deal more than he let on to either. He was doing this deed as a representative of the House of Durin, and he was determined to conduct himself in a matter befitting of the same. “We are ambassadors from Erebor, and would have words with those who call themselves your leaders.”

“Ambassadors who come armed,” the elf-captain observed, jerking his bow slightly to point out Kíli’s own weapons. “Your request shall be honoured, but only after you have surrendered your arms.”

Kíli was of a mind to tell the elf to lay his own down first, but swallowed that impulse, aware the situation balanced on a knife’s edge, and his kin’s fate hung in the balance. The setting was dire enough as it was without aggravating things further. Moving his stiffly reluctant arms, he drew the strap that bore quiver, bow, and sword over his head, holding it out and letting it slip through his fingers as one of the elves took it from his hands. Bilbo, after a second’s hesitation, also handed over Sting, staring after the small blade with a longing glance as if he never expected to see it again. Kíli could well sympathize, having already seen his own beloved tools disappear into the elven ranks of Mirkwood once before, their replacements now following in their footsteps, but he did not let that sympathy show on his face, pulling on every remnant of the Durin blood that ran in his veins to stand tall and unflinching before the elves’ scrutiny.

“Come,” the elf-captain commanded as soon as they had been relieved of their weapons. “I will show you the way.”

Nudging Bilbo to go first, Kíli trailed along at both their heels, letting his eyes scan the encampment through which they now moved. The men of Laketown and their elven compatriots had not made their home within the ruins of Dale, choosing to be further north, nearer to the mountain, and perhaps fearful of what ghosts and dangers might still lurk in the fallen city. Their temporary home hung instead on the edge of small ravine through which the River Running had long carved its path, Dale’s crumbled walls and the bridge that spanned the river a mere shadow behind the crowd of white tents.

The camp itself seemed even larger now that he stood inside it than it had from the mountain, and he felt his mouth run dry as he saw the various elves and men at work in makeshift smithies or laughing around roaring bonfires as they feasted and sang of riches and victory they had yet no claim to. He felt like he should be angered by their presumptions, and knew Thorin would have been, but instead he felt saddened, just as the looks of possession on his companions’ faces saddened him. Turning away from the camps, he pinned his gaze to the elf-captain’s head, and did not move it from the braided, blond locks until he and Bilbo were ushered into a large tent that stood out among those set around it.

Inside he found himself suddenly face to face with not only Bard of Esgaroth, but also King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Though he had suspected that the elvish king would be present, he felt himself freeze momentarily upon actually entering the presence of the being who had kept he and twelve others imprisoned for so long. Anger rushed through him, and he might have acted upon it, had Bard not spoken first.

“This is an odd envoy that Thorin Oakenshield sends forth in the dark watches of the night,” the bowman commented, viewing them both with open curiosity, and not a little wariness. “Are such dealings customary among dwarves?”

“Well, we aren’t what you would call an _official_ envoy, exactly,” Bilbo piped up, filling the silence Kíli was not yet in hand enough to repel. Wincing slightly at that admittance, he turned to glare at Bilbo, earning a helpless shrug from the Halfling.

“Indeed.” Thranduil, intrigued, leant forward in his seat – a simple, wooden creation, without the glamor of the throne inside his own halls – elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped beneath his chin. “Then in what capacity do you now come before us?”

“As an heir of Durin,” Kíli spoke at last, finally finding his voice. “A Prince of Erebor, and kin to its King, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“A King yet without a kingdom, Prince Kíli,” Bard replied, uttering the title without contempt, and reminding Kíli they had met once before by speaking his name. Erebor is not yet reclaimed.”

“My uncle would beg to differ,” Kíli answered, finding his stride and keeping it. "You sit here with your army believing that he will break, but I know Thorin, and he would not bow to your wishes if you sat here a hundred years.”

“That is as may be,” Thranduil conceded with an odd tilt of his head. “But the fact remains that, should he pursue that path, he will soon find the riches of his mountain insubstantial in the face of greater needs.”

“Actually,” Bilbo, again, seemed to feel the need to interject. “I’m almost certain he would rather sit on his gold and starve to death than submit to your request.”

“If he is set on this folly, we shall not dissuade him,” Thranduil was undeterred. “There are debts to be paid, and until they are settled…”

“Debts?” Kíli’s eyes flashed as he stepped forward, his ire finally getting the better of him. “Who are _you_ to speak of debts, when you _abandoned_ the people of Erebor to their fate when Smaug came? My uncle did not ask you to slay the beast, he asked you for _help_ , and you could not even be bothered to offer so much as a loaf of bread to a people who had lost their very home! The only debt owed here is to the people of Esgaroth, who showed generosity when you did not, and who earned further reward by slaying Smaug. To you nothing is due, and were it you alone making demands at our door I would have joined my uncle in sending you on your way as swiftly as possible.”

Bilbo made an odd choking noise at his side, and Thranduil’s face contorted in rage, but Bard intervened before things could go further.

“There are old grievances here,” he said smoothly. “And I do not think now is the time to either air them or set them to rest. We know now that Thorin Oakenshield would sooner die with his hoard than part from it, but I sense that is not all you came to tell.”

“No.” Reining his anger back in with an effort, Kíli kept his focus on Bard, all but ignoring Thranduil, for fear of what he might do if he did not. “We bring warning that in two days or less you will be besieged by an army from the Iron Hills led by Dain Ironfoot. Thorin was able to send word to our kin in the east, and they have answered his summons.”

“He means to make a war of it, then,” Bard said darkly, leaning back in his chair as he folded his arms across his chest. “But, even with whatever reinforcements is sent, surely he must realize he is still outnumbered? The whole strength of Mirkwood’s army lies here before him, and that is without taking into account the men from Esgaroth who bolster their ranks. Dain Ironfoot’s army would have to be mighty indeed for them to hope for victory.”

“I do not pretend to know my uncle’s exact mind in this,” Kíli responded a great deal more calmly than he had spoken a few moments before. He did not know his uncle’s mind at all anymore, or his brother’s, a chasm so wide between them it made their separation on the stone giant’s knees seem like naught. But he could not think of that void now, the place at his right hand that should have been filled by a dwarf not a hobbit, and instead focussed his thoughts on seeing this act of perfidy through to its completion. “Nor do I know what his intentions will be once Dain arrives. I know only that bloodshed lingers on the horizon, and I… I want no part in it.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thranduil straighten, taking interest in the conversation again, and even Bard looked surprised.

“You wish leave to depart from the mountain?” the bowman asked, sounding disbelieving.

“No.” Kíli shook his head. “I hope to return there once my task here is done.”

“And what is that task?” Bard probed.

“To deliver something,” he replied curtly. “Something of value enough to give you leverage, and of a nature fit to touch Thorin’s heart when no other plea will.”

Kíli swallowed, realizing yet again what a terrible deed he was now committing. He was glad it was Bilbo, and not he, carrying the Arkenstone. For, had it rested in his hands, he felt as though he would have fled already with it tightly grasped to his chest. Instead he turned to the hobbit, encouraging him to step forward and remove the wrapped bundle from his coat. The cloth he had bound it in fell away as he tugged loose the strappings, and suddenly the Heart of the Mountain shone forth once more.

Beholding it for the first time, Kíli stared upon the sheer beauty of the precious stone in wonder, then quickly averted his gaze, a dogged fear nipping at his heels and reminding him he could as easily fall to the enthralment of Erebor as his companions were he not careful.

“This is…” Bard began, wonder in his tone.

“The Arkenstone,” Bilbo supplied, for Kíli’s voice had abandoned him yet again, in awe or fear or crushing guilt he could not say. “The Heart of Erebor, and the heart of Thorin Oakenshield. You do not know what he would give to have this in his possession.”

“I think I am beginning to guess.” Thranduil’s gaze drifted away from the hobbit and his prize as he frowned at Kíli. Why are you surrendering this onto us? Is this stone not a great heirloom of your house?”

“It may yet be the only chance for peace we have,” Kíli murmured, transfixed by the light patterns glittering across the floor, and starting back to reality with a sharp jolt when Bilbo hastily rewrapped the Arkenstone’s coverings. “As a representative of the House of Durin, I give it into your keeping, Bard of Esgaroth, under the understanding it will be returned to my family once this… disagreement has been settled.”

He watched then, forcefully curbing the insatiable urge to stop it, as Bilbo handed the wrapped stone over to a still amazed Bard with a clumsy bow. The Halfling retreated quickly after, returning to his place at Kíli’s side, and the young dwarf absurdly took comfort at the hobbit’s presence beside him. Bilbo was not his brother, and could never be, but he would have to do for now.

“It will be returned,” Bard promised, resting the covered stone on his knees as he gazed at them both with amazement. “I give you my word, Prince Kíli of Erebor, that it shall one day hang in the halls of your home once more.” Kíli nodded stiffly, and Bard frowned. “But what now?” he asked cautiously. “You spoke earlier of your intention to return to the mountain, but can you, really, having done this deed?”

“My place is there.” Of that, there was no question. This may be the worst act of treason ever committed in dwarvish history, but Kíli considered abandoning the Company a crime far worse. He could not walk away from his friends and family. He _would not_. “If Master Baggins desires, he can stay here, but I have no choice in the matter.”

“You had a choice,” Thranduil corrected softly, without the aggravation of before. “You made it, and made it well. Doubtlessly, if you take at all after your mother’s kin, you will not care for the respect of an elf, but you have it, Kíli, son of Dís, as do you, Master Baggins. This was no easy thing to do, I am sure.”

“I doubt whether it’s over yet, either,” Bilbo murmured, sounding disquieted. “Things are never so easy.”

“That is true.” Turning, Bard set the stone safely down atop the pallet pressed into one corner of the tent, before rising and approaching both his guests. “What _will_ you do now, Bilbo Baggins? Remain here, or return with Prince Kíli to Erebor?”

Bilbo hesitated, and Kíli more than half expected him to choose the first, and far safer alternative. But Bilbo instead stole a glance at the young dwarf, before squaring his shoulders and meeting Bard’s compassionate gaze with a steady one.

“I’ve been a part of the Company too long to walk out on them now,” he declared solemnly. “I thank you for the offer, Master Bard, but I cannot stay here. I shall return with Kíli.”

“Bilbo,” Kíli protested, fearing what harm might come to his hobbit friend once Thorin discovered what they had done. Bilbo did not have the protection offered by the ties of blood that Kíli had, and Kíli was not even certain those ties would be enough when Thorin learned of their actions this night. He had seen the longing for the Arkenstone in his uncle’s eyes, and knew Bilbo had spoke truth when he called the precious gemstone as much the heart of Thorin as it was of the mountain. “You do not have to…”

“And neither did you,” Bilbo remarked pointedly, turning to him and quelling him with a look that would have made Thorin proud. “But you did, because it was the _right_ thing to do, and so is this. I may be a burglar now, but I won’t skulk away like a thief in the night and leave my friends to assume the worst.”

“They will likely do that anyway,” Kíli laughed, feeling oddly light and relieved, though he was certain the feeling would pass swiftly enough. It would be good to have _someone_ at his side, at least, when the storm broke. “And I am not at all certain anymore that they are the ones leaving their senses behind them.”

“We were all mad long before this quest started, I’m sure,” Bilbo muttered, shaking his head, then turning back to the two bemused lords watching their exchange. “No, I’ll be leaving, and I’ll not be swayed.”

“As stubborn as any dwarf, then,” Thranduil observed with a slight shake of his head. “Very well, have your way, but go with the good wishes of my people. I pray that Thorin Oakenshield sees sense before he metes out the punishment that is sure to come.” With a slight incline of his head, the elven lord thus excused himself, leaving the pair alone with Bard.

“If you will not stay, then you must at least allow me to escort you back to the gates of Erebor,” the Esgarothian said with a slight sigh. “It is the very least I can do after the sacrifice you two just made.”

Accepting the man’s offer, Kíli followed Bard back out of the tent, and very nearly collided with a grey clad arm, the hand belonging to which grasped his weapons, and held them now extended, ready for him to take. Uncertainly, he closed his hand around his armaments, before lifting his gaze to view the man returning them.

“Gandalf!” The name burst forth from his lips with joy and delight, his worries and fears momentarily brushed aside by his excitement at seeing the wizard.

“You’re here?” Bilbo, who had almost crashed into his back when he stopped so suddenly, stepped around him to gape up at the smiling wizard. “But… How? When?”

“Those are questions that must wait for the time being, Master Baggins,” Gandalf replied with the same mystique Thorin had accused him of always delighting in as he handed Sting back to its rightful owner. “And are of little import regardless. I am here now, and just in time, it seems.” He pinned them both with a knowing look. “I am not sure whether you have both done something very brave or very foolish, and I’m inclined to think of it as both. It was well done, regardless.”

“Are you coming back to the Mountain with us?” Bilbo asked eagerly, clearly hoping for some support in the inevitably approaching confrontation.

“Not just yet,” Gandalf declined, and Kíli felt his own heart sink again as he realized he, too, had been pinning his hopes on the wizard’s presence. “But take heart, both of you. The tides are changing swiftly, and things unlooked for are about to occur. Things of darkness and shadow, that will clear minds of their gluttony and remind them who their true foe in this world is.”

More unsettled than comforted, Kíli slid the strap of his quiver over his head before turning back to the wizard. “What do you mean?”

“All in good time, _Prince_ Kíli,” Gandalf replied, a twinkle in his eye as he emphasized the title. “All in good time, and you are short of it. You had best hasten back now, before you are missed. I expect I shall see you both again on the morrow.”

Kíli was not so certain, but he accepted the wizard’s congenial farewell nonetheless, then travelled in silence with Bilbo, Bard, and a small honour guard back to the pooled water outside the gates of Erebor. It was only there that they parted ways, after one last attempt on Bard’s part to convince them to stay. Both Kíli and Bilbo refused the kind offer, and turned with a sense of dreaded finality back towards the mountain that had become both home and prison for the time being. The deed was now done, and all that was left to do was await the consequences.

 


	3. Unto a Traitor a Traitor's Due

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 3**

**_ Unto a Traitor a Traitor’s Due _ **

 

Gandalf’s words stayed with Kíli for the rest of his sleepless night, and he lay on his back pondering them long after he had woken Bombur to follow him in the watch. What had the old wizard meant, he wondered, when he spoke of darkness and shadow soon to be upon them? Was it Dain he spoke of? Of the war brewing between dwarves and elves and men? That was a coming darkness, certainly, but he could not shake the feeling it was not what Gandalf had been referring to. He had said that the approaching shadow would turn minds away from the greed of gold, not start a war over it, and he tried to find meagre comfort in that thought.

The Company was up at the crack of dawn, Bombur humming tunelessly and without his accustomed mirth as he divvied up the rations for their breakfast. Kíli found the very idea of food, let alone _cram_ , as appealing as the idea of gnawing on the old bones that littered the dragon’s bed of gold, and turned his own share down almost as soon as it was offered. He had forgotten that Bombur was the only one among the others who did not seem wholly enchanted by the treasure of Erebor, and thus was surprised when the large dwarf took him aside after he had served the others.

“Are you ill, Kíli?” he asked anxiously, looking the youngest heir of Durin up and down as if expecting him to show some visible sign of less than pristine health. “Only, I could not help but notice your lack of appetite yesterday, and it has not improved this morning.”

“No, no I’m not ill,” he assured their kindly cook with a wavering smile. “I’m just not all that hungry.”

“None of us are, not for _cram_ ,” Bombur harrumphed his disgust at their only source of food. “But we’re all eating. Come to think of it, you didn’t look all that well last night, either. Are you _sure_ nothing is wrong?”

Kíli inwardly cursed Bombur for choosing _now_ , of all times, to actually be more observant of his companions than he was of his meals. Thought, perhaps with only _cram_ to take his fancy, Bombur was seeking a distraction from the hunger that was no doubt ten times worse for him than anyone else. Thankfully, or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view, he was saved from the need to make any response by the sound of clear trumpets ringing outside. Thorin was on his feet in a second, with Fíli, Balin, and Dwalin following him up the stairs to stand above the gate. After a second’s hesitation, Kíli moved to trail all four, sharing a trepidatious smile with Bilbo as the hobbit joined him. By the time the pair of them made it to top steps words were already being exchanged between the envoys and Thorin, and Kíli felt a wave of relief wash over him as he spotted Gandalf standing before and between Thranduil and Bard, concealed in a grey robe and hood, his pointed hat conspicuously absent.

“Is there nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?” Bard was saying, his voice carrying clearly on the early morning air.

Thorin snorted, giving a dismissive wave as he retorted, “Nothing you or your friends have to offer.”

Bard hesitated a beat, and Kíli saw the Esgarothian’s gaze flicker briefly to him and Bilbo, before returning to Thorin. "What of the Arkenstone of Thror?” he asked boldly, and it was then that Gandalf raised his hands and removed the lid on the box Kíli had failed to notice before. The Arkenstone shone forth with the same glorious beauty as had almost bewitched him the night before, and, stealing a glance at his uncle, Kíli saw the same wonder and reverence on Thorin’s face. Silence fell then, one of deep anticipation and confusion, and it was broken only when Thorin found his voice again.

“That stone was my grandfather’s,” he declared, rage in his voice and face, a deeper anger than any Kíli had ever seen. Instinctively, he shrunk back against the stone barricade running along the balcony, and was dimly aware of Bilbo doing the same. “And I will not pay tribute for what is now rightfully mine! How came you to even possess this heirloom of my house, if it is even necessary to ask such a question of thieves?”

“We are not thieves,” Bard answered calmly, directing Gandalf with a wave of his hand to cover the jewel once more. “The Arkenstone will be returned to you as soon as the debts owed to Esgaroth have been met.”

But Thorin would not accept that evasion, and shouted in rage, “I will have an answer! How came you by it?”

“I gave it to them!” The voice came from beside him, and Kíli turned in dread to Bilbo, hoping to silence the hobbit, but knowing it was too late, his uncle’s wroth-filled gaze having already found its prey.

“ _What_?”

The single word was toneless, and that, Kíli knew, was a greater sign of Thorin’s anger than any other. Bilbo was shaking now, his face gone utterly white, and his mouth opening and closing without sound. Thorin took a step forward, and Bilbo scurried back.

“Speak, burglar!” the leader of their Company demanded. “Speak again. Explain to me how the Arkenstone came to be in their hands. Explain to me what treachery you have wrought here this day, you miserable, _cursed_ creature!”

Thorin’s hand was already on his sword, and Kíli, unable to stand by, threw himself between the pair.

“Stop, Thorin! It wasn’t his fault!” he cried, blocking Bilbo from the enraged King’s sight. “It was _my_ idea!”

That was not entirely truthful, but nor was it wholly a lie, and Kíli refused to let Bilbo come to harm, even if that meant enduring the look of enraged betrayal now darkening his kin’s features.

“Do not lie on his behalf, Kíli,” Thorin’s tone was a warning in and of itself, without the need for the words that bore it. "Do not stand in my way.”

“I am not lying.” Kíli stood his ground, not daring to turn away from his uncle, because he could not bear to see the looks of betrayal he was sure he would find on the faces of his companions. “I went with Bilbo to the enemy camp last night during my watch to deliver the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth. I knew what he was doing, I could have stopped him, but instead I aided him. If you wish to punish someone, then punish me.”

The look on his uncle’s face then was indescribable, and Kíli stood uncertain, waiting for the hammer to fall, and not knowing which path its descent might follow. He had never had reason to fear Thorin before now, though he had held him above all others and lived in awe of the great dwarf he was, he had never feared that harm might come to him at his uncle’s hands. He did not know now, however, if that still held true, and that uncertainty frightened him.

He saw the moment when Thorin made his choice as clear as daylight, the King under the Mountain’s hand flying once more to his blade as he tore it free of its sheath and leap forward with a bellow of raw, animalistic rage. Kíli staggered back, arms raised in a fruitless attempt to protect himself even as he braced for the inevitable, only to have the inevitable never come.

“Stay your hand, Thorin Oakenshield!” Gandalf’s voice was a booming shout that carried effortlessly across the distance, and Thorin stilled as though struck by lightning, Kíli stumbling back clear of the blade, still shocked at the very thought his uncle had ever raised it against him. He distantly felt Bilbo’s hand land against his back in an offer of support, but could not grant the hobbit even the slightest reassurance in return. “Do not chastise your kin for taking action that should have been done by yourself! You have refused those you should have welcomed, and offered nothing to those who deserved your gratitude. If others saw fit to fill the void left by your inaction, you cannot blame them for staying true to ideals you yourself once upheld, though your love of gold has now blinded you to it.”

“It seems there is treachery to find around every corner!” Thorin shouted back, venom in his words, though at least now it was directed at Gandalf, and not at them. Kíli sensed another’s gaze on him, and knew it to be his brother’s, but didn’t dare lift his own from the stone beneath his feet. “How many others in my party have you swayed, _wizard_? How many others loyal to me are bewitched by your words?”

“There is but one bewitchment here, Thorin, and it is not of my doing,” the wizard replied calmly. “Now, allow Bilbo and young Kíli to depart the Mountain in peace.”

“Gladly,” Thorin replied with false civility. “Traitors belong amongst their own, and _you_ …” He turned to Kíli, his gaze scathing, and Kíli all but crumbled beneath his condemnation. “You are no heir of the House of Durin. You are hereby stripped of the right to utter any affiliation with that house, and from any claim to the rights and privileges the bloodline of that family carries.”

His blood was rushing in his ears, and he dimly thought he heard Fíli’s voice, uttering Thorin’s name in both plea and protest. If his brother had truly spoken on his behalf he did not know, and Thorin did not so much as pause in his tracks.

“You have disgraced these halls, and those of your ancestors who once walked them, and in retribution I name you cast out and exiled from this and all other sanctuaries that belong to our people. Now go, and go quickly, before my patience is done.”

Kíli might have stood there till the end of time, frozen in place by his uncle’s denunciation, had Bilbo not administered a sharp tug to his sleeve, all but dragging him across the parapet to refasten the rope they had used the night before. The hobbit nudged and prodded at him until he went down first, not heeding the final exchange between the envoys and Thorin, nor even aware that Bilbo had led him to stand among them. He could think of nothing but Thorin’s words, and the expression that had been on his kin’s face as he spoke them. He had expected no thanks for his decision, and had known how dire a wrath his actions might awake, but the extent to which Thorin had gone… _That_ he had never expected, and he could scarcely function beneath the weight of its occurrence.

 _Exiled. Cast out. Disgraced_.

The words spun in Kíli’s mind in an unceasing cycle, bounding from one side of his skull to the other and leaving a searing path in their wake. He felt both hot and cold, his stomach turned to knots, and his palms damp with sweat. What had he done? What had he _done_? _What had he done_? He knew what the Arkenstone meant to Thorin, and yet he had… Whatever had possessed him to…? Tears blurred his vision, and he stumbled as he trailed the ambassadorial party back towards the camp of elves and men, starting when he felt a firm grip close about the elbow.

“Do not doubt the deed done at the bidding of the heart,” Gandalf counselled when Kíli glanced up at him, not bothering to hide yet another mark of shame to his name. He was no longer of the House of Durin, what pride did he have left? “Often it knows things the mind does not. The Thorin Oakenshield who stood on that wall today is not the dwarf who led twelve others hence from Bag End, though he may yet be saved from this illness of the mind.”

“I…” he stammered, fighting for words, knowing he had none. “I _betrayed_ him. You did not see his face… he… he…” His actions had forced his uncle to raise his blade against him. _What had he done_?

“Stop this, Kíli, son of Dís!” Gandalf halted in his tracks, giving Kíli a sharp shake to ensure he had the young dwarf’s attention. Startled, Kíli found himself staring up at the wizard in shock. “I told you it was well done and I meant it. Do not second guess yourself now.” Kíli swallowed sharply, wondering how Gandalf could expect him to do anything but that. The wizard’s expression softened then, and he reached inside his robes, drawing forth the box containing the Arkenstone and pressing it into Kíli’s hands. “This is the birthright of your house,” he stated gently. “It is yours to keep until its rightful owner is of a mind fit to possess it.”

“It is not my house anymore, Gandalf,” he answered softly, glancing down at the nondescript chest in his hands. “Did you not hear Thorin?”

“He will regret those words with time,” Gandalf counselled calmly, placing a hand on Kíli’s shoulder and using it to steer him after the others. “If he is not already. Fíli spoke for you, if you did not notice.”

“I thought I heard his voice…” Kíli murmured, still feeling hollow inside, but cheered, if only a little, by the thought his brother had come to his aid. Fíli had been all but ignoring him over the past few days, taken by the gold enchantment to the point he seemed to have forgotten Kíli existed. But he had remembered when it counted, even if that had been too late, and had not turned on Kíli for his actions. He wished now that he had dared to look his brother in the face before their parting, especially seeing as there was chance he would never get such an opportunity again.

“So you see you have not lost everything,” Gandalf told him firmly. “Not yet, and you are not alone either.”

At that last statement Kíli found himself looking up, both surprised and not to see Bilbo waiting for him on the fringes of the camp, a pinched look of concern on the burglar’s face. Gandalf gave him a slight shove in Bilbo’s direction, before hastening away on whatever business had brought him to the mountain’s foot in the first place. Kíli watched him go, then turned and closed the distance between himself and the hobbit.

“Did Gandalf give you that?” Bilbo asked curiously, nodding his head towards the box.

“Yes.” He juggled its weight slightly, feeling the heaviness of the stone within, and yet without any desire to see it again. He had had enough of rich and beautiful things to last him a lifetime, it seemed. “For safekeeping, or so he said.” Eyeing Bilbo, he extended both hands on impulse. “I can think of no safer place to leave it than with our burglar.”

“Oh, I couldn’t…!” Bilbo began to protest.

“Please, Bilbo,” his quiet plea silenced the hobbit in an instant. “I would rather not keep the wretched thing. Give it to Bard, or even to Thranduil, if you wish, but at least take it off my hands.”

Looking even more concerned than he had been before, Bilbo nonetheless took the proffered chest. “You don’t mean that,” he said. “Leastways, not that bit about Thranduil.”

“Perhaps not,” Kíli agreed, rubbing a hand across his brow as he felt the consequences of too many sleepless nights and the stress of this very morning come crashing down upon him. Bilbo, still watching him like a hawk, reached out to grab his sleeve again.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Bard has given us lodgings, such as they are. Not that I should complain, really. Warm food and a bedroll in a tent is as good as anywhere else I daresay, though…”

The rest of Bilbo’s prattle Kíli simply tuned out, letting his mind go blank as he blindly followed after the hobbit, and collapsing onto the first pallet he saw, not even bothering to remove his coat or boots. Sleep offered him an escape, from what he had done, what Thorin had done, and what was yet to _be_ done, and he did not hesitate to take it.

 


	4. Cracks in the Dragon's Curse

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 4**

**_ Cracks in the Dragon’s Curse _ **

 

“I gave it to them!”

When the Company’s burglar spoke Fíli turned with all others to stare at their hobbit in dismay, but his gaze never made it to the halfling’s features, caught instead by the sight of his brother’s face, pale and terrified, Kíli’s dark eyes darting frenetically from Bilbo to Thorin’s enraged visage.

“ _What_?”

There was a deep fury behind that one word, an anger Fíli shared, for this act Bilbo claimed to have committed was one of the highest treachery, the deepest betrayal, and… and _why_ was Kíli looking like that?

Thorin strode a pace forward as Bilbo scuttled back, looking suddenly afraid, as he well should. Fíli could see his uncle’s hand hovering near his blade even as he raged at their thief.

“Speak, burglar!” he commanded, eyes alight with a fire that burned hotter than even dragon’s flame. “Speak again. Explain to me how the Arkenstone came to be in their hands. Explain to me what treachery you have wrought here this day, you miserable, _cursed_ creature!”

There was the slightest grate of metal on metal as Thorin’s sword began to slip free of its bindings, and something like unease crept up Fíli’s spine, his anger mingled with a sudden doubt, a far off bell ringing clearly through a cacophony of noise. And then Kíli was there, arms outstretched as he stood between Bilbo and Thorin, his face colourless, but his stance determined.

“Stop, Thorin! It wasn’t his fault!” Kíli was fond of Bilbo, so of course he would defend him, Fíli reasoned, though surely his brother could see that this was an unforgivable offense that…”It was _my_ idea.”

His thoughts ground to a sudden halt, his world shifting and spinning on an axis in an effort to sit itself right again. Kíli could not mean… His brother would not have…

“Do not lie on his behalf, Kíli,” Thorin warned, echoing Fíli’s own thoughts. For surely that was all this was. His brother was of Durin’s Line, one of the Company, and he would not have betrayed them in such a way. Not Kíli. "Do not stand in my way.”

“I am not lying.” Kíli raised his chin slightly in defiance, meeting Thorin’s glare without flinching, and Fíli’s heart began to race in his chest, because he _knew_ his sibling too well to doubt now what he saw in the archer’s face. Kíli was telling the truth. Each word his brother spoke now was a stabbing pain in his chest, for this was _real_. It had happened. Kíli had _betrayed_ them.

“I went with Bilbo to the enemy camp last night during my watch to deliver the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth.”

_No, Kíli. Do not say that. You cannot have done it, brother…_

“I knew what he was doing. I could have stopped him, but instead I aided him.”

Thorin’s expression was darkening by the second, and Fíli was suddenly afraid for his sibling.

_Stop talking, Ki, just stop._

But Kíli was not done, and sealed what had already been spoken with his final verbal sally. “If you wish to punish someone, punish me.”

And Thorin would. Fíli could see it in every line of his uncle’s body, in the way rage made his hands tremble, his knuckles white against his sword’s hilt. Frantic, he made to step forward, but the words he summoned to his lips were drowned out by the cry of outrage that left Thorin’s own as the King Under the Mountain leapt forward, his blade swinging free of its sheath in an arc meant to end in Kíli’s flesh. Kíli’s eyes were wide and petrified as he staggered backwards in an effort to evade harm, and then Gandalf’s voice was booming all around them with the same commanding presence it had held in Bag End.

“Stay your hand, Thorin Oakenshield!” the wizard roared, and wonder of wonders Thorin did just that. Pausing mid-strike as he whirled to gaze down at their once-guide. Fíli had eyes only for Kíli, however, and his brother’s ashen face, only the hobbit’s bracing hand on his back keeping the young dwarf upright. “Do not chastise your kin for taking action that should have been done by yourself! You have refused those you should have welcomed, and offered nothing to those who deserved your gratitude. If others saw fit to fill the void left by your inaction, you cannot blame them for staying true to ideals you yourself once upheld, though your love for gold has now blinded you to it.”

“It seems there is treachery to find around every corner!” Thorin shouted back as Fíli tried to catch his brother’s gaze, but Kíli’s eyes were downcast, his head bowed in defeat, and if he sensed Fíli’s eyes on him he did not return the glance. “How many others in my party have you swayed, _wizard_? How many others loyal to me are bewitched by your words?”

“There is but one bewitchment here, Thorin, and it is not of my doing.” Gandalf’s answer came, steady and sincere. “Now, allow Bilbo and young Kíli to depart the Mountain in peace.”

“Gladly.” Thorin’s agreement had come too swiftly. Fíli stepped forward, though he knew he could not bodily halt words. “Traitors belong amongst their own kind. And _you_ …” He turned then, his piercing gaze finding his youngest nephew, and Fíli almost fell back under shock himself at the words that followed. “You are no heir of the House of Durin. You are hereby stripped of the right to utter any affiliation with that house, and from any claim to the rights and privileges the bloodline of that family carries.”

“Thorin…” He took another step forward, desperate to intervene, but Thorin did not even so much as glance his way. "Thorin, stop, _please_.”

“You have disgraced these halls.” His eyes darted to his brother, though he almost wished they had not, for he could see Kíli crumbling beneath every word. “And those of your ancestors who once walked them, and in retribution I name you cast out and exiled from this and all other sanctuaries belonging to our people. Now go, and go quickly, before my patience is done.”

But Kíli didn’t move, his eyes fixed on Thorin as though his uncle had just ripped his heart from his chest with his bare hands. And Thorin had, Fíli thought, grief and fury and confusion stilling his tongue when he knew he should have been saying something, _anything_ that might spare Kíli the utter agony this had to be. Bilbo moved faster than he, however, and the hobbit had led his brother away before he could do more than raise a hand in a gesture of pleading even he did not fully understand. The wrongness of this was overwhelming, and Gandalf’s words echoed in his ears.

_Bewitchment_ , the wizard’s voice sounded again and again. _Bewitchment._

“I am betrayed,” Thorin was speaking again, angry still, though it was a more controlled rage now. Fíli did not understand how it could be so, for his own emotions were in turmoil, his head filled with questions and doubts and screaming denials, and he had half a mind to fling himself off the wall in Kíli’s wake. That was his brother, his baby brother, and Thorin had just…”It was rightly guessed that I could not forbear to redeem the Arkenstone, the greatest treasure of my house. For it I will give one-fourteenth share of Erebor’s wealth, but that shall be accounted the promised share of these _traitors_ , and with that reward they shall depart, and you may divide it as you will. They will have little enough, I do not doubt.”

“Until it is delivered, we keep the stone,” Bard replied, unmoving, and Gandalf added his own words of wisdom.

“You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain,” the wizard stated flatly. “But things may change yet.”

“They may indeed,” was Thorin’s answer, and Fíli’s eyes snapped to his uncle in sudden suspicion, wary of the tone in which those words were uttered. Surely Thorin did not meant to…

“We will give you until tomorrow,” Bard addressed Thorin again. “At noon we will return and see if you have brought forth from the hoard the portion that is to be set against the stone. If that is done without deceit then the siege shall be lifted, and we will depart from the Mountain.”

With those final words the leader of men turned his back on the gates of Erebor, all others following in his footsteps, and Fíli watched in dismay as his brother vanished from his sight. His heart spoke out against all that had happened, and he demanded answers of himself in anger. Why had he not intervened sooner? Why had he stood by and let Thorin threaten first Bilbo and then Kíli, his own brother? Furious, he turned away from the wall even as he heard Thorin call for Roac, storming down the stairs to the hallways below. He paced there, back and forth, as he waited for the others to descend as well. Thorin was a long time following, and did not even bother speaking to his nephew as he strode across to the smouldering remains of the night’s fire and calmly took his seat there.

It was that indifference that did Fíli in, the blond dwarf crossing the space between he and his uncle in a few long strides and ripping his gifted sword free of its trappings to hurl it to the floor. The bejewelled blade clattered on the stone with a resounding boom that drew the attention of the whole Company, and not just the dwarf at whom’s feet it had been so violently cast. Thorin was the last to raise his head at the noise, taking a moment to briefly study the fine weapon Fíli had so loved when it was first given to him, and now loathed with all his being, before turning his gaze up to his enraged nephew.

“What,” Fíli began, verging on an icy fury such as he had never felt before, his hands clenched at his sides and his teeth grinding together as he spoke. “Was _that_?”

Around them, the entire Company seemed to close ranks, either to retreat or to intervene Fíli neither knew nor cared. All he could think of was the way his uncle had come so perilously close to bringing the blade now resting at his side down upon his brother, and the way Kíli had simply shattered as Thorin made every perceived rejection of the past pale in comparison to that which now hung over the present. Fíli did not understand why Kíli had given the Arkenstone to Bard and the elves. His brother was impulsive at the best of times, and never one to think things through thoroughly, but he knew Kíli would never deliberately betray them. Whatever thoughts had been in his younger sibling’s mind when he handed the beloved jewel over, they had not been of treachery, of that Fíli was certain, and he had not deserved the punishment Thorin had been all too ready to mete out.

“Justice,” Thorin answered him tersely, his eyes narrowed in warning. “Or do you condone what he did?”

_He_. Not Kíli. Not ‘your brother’. Simply _he_ , because Thorin had taken everything else.

“You call _that_ justice?” he demanded fiercely. “You were going to execute him!”

“That is the penalty for treachery!”

Surging to his feet, Thorin pulled on his advantage in height to tower over his nephew, but Fíli would not be swayed. His mind was clearer now than it had been in days, and he knew, realized for the first time, that it had _not_ been clear before. He did not know when the lure of the treasure had breached his defences and taken his mind, but he knew now that it had happened, and that it was _still_ happening to all those around him. Because Fíli _knew_ his uncle loved both he and his brother as a father would his sons, and, were Thorin in his right mind, he would not have raised a hand, let alone a blade, against either one of them.

“Kíli did _not_ betray you!” he shouted back, refusing to be cowed, and wishing he had his younger brother’s height to combat Thorin’s. "He was trying to _help_!”

“By selling our greatest treasure to the enemy?” Thorin’s voice was thick with anger, disappointment, and incredulous disbelief. “That is what you would call aid?”

Why _had_ Kíli bartered the Arkenstone? Why had he risked going against not just their uncle, but also every dwarf in the Company, to hand such a prize to those who besieged them in their own home? Fíli paused a moment, seeking an adequate response, and knowing if he simply thought for long enough he would find his brother’s reasons. He knew Kíli too well to _not_ be able to figure out the path his thoughts must have taken. His brother had been alone, surrounded by kin who had eyes for nothing but the bewitching treasure thick with a dragon’s curse, and he had chosen to take the greatest treasure of all and give it to the enemy. Was he hoping to avert further enchantment? No, the entire Company had already been obsessed with the gold, so that could not be the reason.

And then he remembered Dain, and the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

“He was _trying_ to stop a _war_!” he roared, not realizing he had done so until the echoes came bounding back again. He heard one of the others – Ori, most likely – let out a startled gasp at the mention of ‘war’, and latched onto that as his answer. “Because that is what it is going to come to, isn’t it?” he demanded sharply. “You told them you would pay Bilbo’s share of the treasure in return for the Arkenstone, but you don’t mean to, do you? You’re going to wait for Dain, and you’re going to try and _fight_ rather than give the men of Esgaroth a single coin! For Durin’s sake, Uncle, they _slew_ the dragon, do they not deserve _something_?”

“ _They_ chose to align themselves with the elves,” Thorin answered him, steel in his voice. “That was their choice, and they were warned of the consequences of making it!”

“Because the elves brought them food and shelter!” It felt strange, justifying the actions of an enemy he had been just as determined to thwart as Thorin but a few hours ago, but the memory of the look on Kíli’s face, the utter devastation that had splashed itself across his young visage, was now irremovably imprinted in Fíli’s mind, and it easily eclipsed whatever hold the gold had possessed over him. “Were they supposed to turn away an offer for aid?”

“They brought an army to our doorstep!”

That was true, a point Fíli had to concede, but…”They did not know we were here.”

“And that excuses their actions?” Thorin demanded incredulously. “Had we not been here they would have marched freely into Erebor and claimed all its treasures for themselves, never once sparing a thought for those of our kin who have as much right to claim it as any elf or man. Had we not been here, the legacy of our people would have been split among them like the spoil of thieves, for that is surely what they are. If they came seeking payment for the aid they offered, why did they bring armed forces? Why now do they besiege us in _our_ home, when they could have come before the gates of Erebor as friends?”

“Maybe because they are as bewitched with its treasures as we are,” he answered, quietly, but with brutal honesty. “And it has driven them to equal lengths of madness.”

His words fell like as many stones into a tranquil pool of water, sending distorting ripples out through the gathered Company, and bringing Thorin, who had been pacing back and forth in his ire, to a standstill. Fíli knew full well how touchy a subject he had chosen to raise, but knew also that the trial of having to tend Thror during his descent into insanity was perhaps the only thing that would allow him to reach his uncle now. The sway of the dragon’s curse had only strengthened the lure of Erebor’s riches, and Fíli knew for a fact how difficult it was to escape the thrall of the treasure. Thorin was staring at him now, however, an unreadable look on his face, and Fíli did not know whether to flee, stand, or speak.

“You would _dare_ make such an accusation?” Thorin said at last, his voice pitched low and full of menace. “Against your King?”

“No, not against my King,” Fíli corrected calmly, showing none of the fear that had formed inside him. “Against my _uncle_. You _threatened_ Kíli, Thorin. You drew your sword on him and could easily have brought him to harm had it not been for Gandalf.”

“Gandalf?” Thorin snarled the wizard’s name. “Do not speak to me of Gandalf. His burglar was nothing but a spy amongst us, intended to tear us apart from the inside as soon as the treasure was within their reach. Gandalf never meant to help us, he sought only to profit from our quest.”

It was not working, Fíli realized with a sinking heart. He could not break the hold Erebor’s treasure had on Thorin as Kíli had broken the spell it had cast over him. He had failed, and he now stood before a king he no longer knew, in the company of friends he was no longer sure he could trust. None had spoken forth against Thorin, either on the wall above or here below, but it may have been respect that stayed their tongues, and the privilege their lesser relations to their leader denied them.

“You will not reconsider, then?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Thorin sighed, and for a moment, just a brief moment, Fíli saw the uncle he knew and loved in the proud dwarf’s face, but that person was gone a moment later, swallowed by the new King under the Mountain.

“Kíli made his choice,” he stated firmly. “As I made mine. Nevertheless, he was your brother, and I do not begrudge you the desire to speak on his behalf.”

Fíli felt his mouth run dry at the inclusion of the word ‘ _was_ ’, and could find no words to respond. Thorin, apparently deciding the matter was done, his forgiveness having closed the subject, motioned for Balin and Dwalin to join him before heading back out onto the wall, no doubt to survey the enemy camp for the umpteenth time, or consult with Roac. Fíli watched him go, feeling as though he should have fought harder, said _more_ , but unable to summon the courage to try. He had done his best, and his best had not been enough.

“Fíli?” The soft voice at his elbow made him jump, and he turned to Ori, not able to summon even the smallest of smiles for the quiet natured scribe. “War?”

“I’m afraid so,” he uttered in hushed tones, shaking his head at Ori’s near frantic expression. “There is no other way.” Which meant Kíli’s sacrifice had also been for nothing. Not a particularly cheering thought.

Disquieted, Ori moved away again at a curt summons from one of his older brothers, and, left to himself, feeling keenly the absence of a presence that had stood at his side almost constantly for the past seven decades, Fíli turned to return to the still burning embers of the last night’s fire, only to freeze when he caught sight of the small bundle set to one side that was his brother’s belongings. Kíli had taken nothing with him but the clothes on his back, leaving the bow and sword he had been furnished with in Esgaroth, a copy formed of lesser materials of those he had carried forth from Erud Luin. Walking across, Fíli dropped down beside the weapons, letting his fingers close about the smooth wood of the bow, and trying to draw some comfort from the object he so readily associated with Kíli.

But there was no comfort to be found in the darkness beneath the mountain.

Not anymore.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Fíli's words had had a greater impact on Thorin Oakenshield than the uncrowned King dared show, and, whilst Fíli no doubt believed the act of throwing himself into his duties was a dismissal of his nephew's concerns, it was, in fact, an effort to remove their burning content from his mind.

Fíli was not often one for confrontations. His eldest nephew was of a far milder disposition than many of his line, and preferred an argument of quiet words to the shouted conflict that had just occurred, but if there was one thing he would fight for with more ferocity than anything else in the world it was his brother. No matter that Kíli had just taken the most precious relic in all of Erebor and handed it over to men and _elves_ , Fíli would stand by him regardless, and argue his case even if he did not understand his brother’s reasoning. Except, that was not entirely true, was it? Because Fíli _had_ understood. Had given a cause and effect, and thrust an accusation in Thorin’s face that now curled like a venomous snake at the back of his mind, its poison already sunk deep.

Madness, Fíli had said. Equal lengths of _madness_. Could it be true? Had he truly allowed the gold sickness to seize him as it had his grandfather? Allowed the same burden as had once rested on his shoulders to fall on those of his nephews? He had sworn that it was a fate that he would never succumb to, but could one really hope to prevent such a thing? Thror had not seen the sickness coming, was it possible he, too, had missed it? He refused to believe as much, but, then, how was he to explain what Kíli had done? Kíli, who, of all his Company, was the one least likely to deliberately go against his will, and certainly not in a manner so drastic. Kíli, who always tried so hard to please, to the point of getting himself into trouble through his efforts.

In all honesty, Thorin would have felt less shocked – less _betrayed_ – had Fíli been the one to take the Arkenstone.

Fíli had always respected him. He was loyal, obedient to a fault, and took his duties as an heir quite seriously despite the fact the kingdom had only just been reclaimed, but he was not like Kíli. Where Fíli respected, Kíli idolized, holding his uncle well above where even Thorin knew he had a right to be. Why his younger nephew saw him in such a light was a mystery, though Thorin felt it could be partially attributed to the earliest years of his childhood. Whilst Fíli had known a loving mother and father for five years, Kíli had been robbed of the latter before he even truly knew the dwarf who had fathered him, and so had substituted his uncle and King in his father’s place. At first Thorin had thought – _hoped_ – Kíli’s reverence would pass with familiarity, but, though he ceased traveling as often as he once had in the early years following his younger nephew’s birth, the novelty of his constant presence had not worn off with time. Kíli's admiration had remained steady and constant as he aged, but, to Thorin's dismay, his awe had not come with the same loyal obedience as Fíli possessed.

Kíli, it seemed, had been set to embody every negative trait for which the line of Durin was known. He was stubborn, reckless, impulsive, and challenged rules at every turn. He sought to impress, Thorin knew, and did not disobey deliberately, but he did have a terrible knack for getting himself into trouble, and thus finding himself on the receiving end of his uncle’s temper a great deal more often than his brother was in the same position.

For all that he had idolized Thorin, however, Kíli had still been fiercely independent. When the time came for Fíli to learn how to handle arms his eldest nephew had been the ever-dutiful heir, learning sword, shield, axe, and hammer, whereas Kíli had skipped right past the primary weapons of his people in favour of one rarely wielded. His choice of arms had been decidedly his own, and none of his uncle's attempts had been able to sway him from his choice. That he had proven remarkably adept with a bow was of little surprise given the dogged determination with which he pursued the art, and Thorin had been forced to concede that, if nothing else, the exercise had at least shown Kíli to be capable of committing to a cause.

Because, if he walked as a pure example of all that was to be disliked about Durin’s line, Kíli also showed a great many of the good aspects. He _was_ committed, loyal, brave, compassionate – sometimes overly so –, determined, bold, and fiercely protective of his own. There was brashness there also, and an excess of youthful courage not yet trimmed by age, but there had been no part of his nephew, _either_ of them, that Thorin had found wanting. And yet he had not seen the betrayal coming. He had not seen the treachery until it was upon him, and he could not help but wonder what else he had been blind to.

Kíli might often act in haste, and without the goodly amount of thought Thorin would prefer he indulge in first, but for a deed so momentous as this he must surely have paused a moment. How had he missed the brooding hours that had most certainly been spent deciding on such a course of action? How had he not noticed his youngest nephew pulling away, drawing into himself and away from those who might seek to know his mind? How had he _missed_ this?

_Madness_ , whispered Fíli’s voice in the back of his mind, and a fear he had not known since a youth spent watching his grandfather’s mind waste away sparked to life once more.

 


	5. Between Kingdom and Kinsmen

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 5**

**_ Between Kingdom and Kinsmen _ **

 

It was dark when Kíli awoke, a predawn greyness seeping through the bare slit at the tent’s entrance, and spilling across the sparsely grassed floor in a straight beam. Bilbo, if he had even slept, was long gone, and the interior of the makeshift shelter was deathly still. Grimacing slightly as he pushed himself upright, regretting the fact he had not taken the time to find a more comfortable sleeping position, he moved his hands to push his tangled hair out of his face, freezing when his fingers brushed along the cold metal of the silver clasp he had miraculously managed to hold onto despite all the trials and tribulations that had stalked their Company since their departure from the Shire.

It was a symbol, that one piece of finery, and it bore the mark of his house, or, of what had _been_ his house. Blindly fumbling, he tore it free of the dark locks that had looped around it, letting it rest in his palm as he stared at the crest he no longer had any right to bear. The clasp itself was one of a set of three, and by rights it should have been returned to Thorin the moment his ties to the line of Durin were severed, ready to be passed on to the next heir of that family. Kíli had not been thinking of such small, minute details at the time, and apparently neither had Thorin, leaving him with the heart-breaking decision of what to do with the bauble.

He could not throw it away, not only because it was not his to part with, but also because it held too much sentimentality in his mind for him to so readily cast it aside. It had once, or so he had been told, hung in the hair of his mother, just as Fíli’s had resided in the dark locks of the younger uncle neither of them had ever had the chance to meet. It was more than a mark of his lineage, it was a memoir of his mother, and with that in mind he tidied up his hair as best he could, before replacing the clasp in its rightful position. Let Thorin cry in outrage if he must, Kíli no longer had the strength to care.

Hauling himself to his feet, he made his way across the tent to push the covering aside and stare out into the early morning twilight. The camps of both men and elves were quiet at this early hour, aside from the near silent shuffle of night-time sentries and the odd clank of metal or creak of leather as some soldier or another attended to his gear. Kíli could see no sign of Bilbo, or even begin to guess where the hobbit had disappeared to in the many hours during which his body had finally succumbed to exhaustion, and decided it best to simply let the matter lie for now. No doubt Bilbo would pop up when least expected, and Kíli wasn’t in much of a mood for company at present regardless.

Relying on his memory of their travel through the camp on the previous two occasions, he picked his way through the various tents until he found that which served as the armoury. The men of Esgaroth had brought an amazing number of arms with them from their burning city, likely the only thing they had thought to grab with a dragon bearing down upon their heads, and their supply of weaponry had been bolstered by what Thranduil’s own forces carried with them on their swift march from Mirkwood. Whether they had been expecting dwarves or not, the elves had clearly been expecting a fight of some sort, and they had come prepared.

He bypassed the swords and shields hanging on their racks on either side of the enclosed space, stepping carefully around a loose pile of rough armour that still bore the smell of dragon’s flame to view the small collection of bows and arrows that had been given their own space in a corner against the back wall. Most of the weapons were of elven make, and even those that were not were too large to ever properly act as a substitute for his own bow or that he had had made in Lake Town during their stopover there, but Kíli had fired such weapons before, and if they were unwieldy they were still manageable.

Choosing one of the smaller, and decidedly _unelven_ bows along with a quiver full of arrows to match he turned and made his way back out of the tent, ignoring the pairs of eyes he felt marking his progress back across the camp towards the clear piece of land he had noted on his way there. The small field was bare save for a few sad and lonely trees that had suffered as dearly as the rest of Erebor’s surrounds when the dragon came, but, dead or not, they provided as good a target as any, and Kíli was in sore need of something to shoot.

Archery had always been a cathartic exercise for the young dwarf, a means of drilling away frustrations that would otherwise drive him mad in the meanwhile. He was not like Fíli, and he could not sit still and logically walk himself through a problem. He needed movement, action, exertion, and when he had worked his muscles for long enough his mind would settle, his agitation would abate, and he would be in a fit state to confront whatever had bothered him in the first place and deal with it. No amount of shooting would offer him the answers he needed to fix the current situation, but it would at least allow him to pass the time in some manner other than chasing his thoughts in pointless and agonizing circles.

He managed to empty the quiver a great many times into the same unfortunate tree before both he and his arrows began to feel the effects of his exertions. He had done the same routine at home many times more, but using a strange weapon had required an adjustment of his stance and method, and he sympathized with his slowly blunting arrows as their performance began to fail. Choosing those among them that were still sharp enough to pierce the gnarly bark of the unfortunate conifer, he took his stance for the umpteenth time, only to nearly drop the arrow when a voice addressed him suddenly from behind.

“Yours is an odd choice of weapon for a dwarf,” the elf observed, for it could only be an elf, with step so light and voice so tellingly fair.

Ignoring the statement for the time being, Kíli planted his hand near his mouth, lining up his next shot and letting the arrow sail before making his response without turning to address the speaker. “We hunt too.”

“Of course.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elf take a seat on one of water barrels lined up along the side of the tent, setting a wrapped bundle down at his side “But it is not often you see a bow wielded in battle, _true_ battle, by one of your kind.”

“So I am an oddity then,” he replied, and not without bitterness. “Have you come to stare? Or did Thranduil send you to make sure I was not sabotaging his ally’s camp from the inside?”

“Your anger, though justified, is misplaced,” the elf answered, still refusing to take offense. “My father did not send me, only my own curiosity.”

“Your father?” Kíli hesitated in the midst of drawing another arrow, finally turning to meet the speaker’s blue stare. “King Thranduil?”

“Aye,” the newly unveiled prince inclined his head lightly. "I am Legolas, Prince of the Realm of Greenwood.”

The arrow was on the string again in a moment, and he barely took the time to aim before letting it fly, a satisfying ‘thud’ signalling it had found its mark. It was the last of any real use in his quiver, and a good thing too, for he feared he may have found his aim straying to less harmless places had he been given the opportunity. The temper for which his line was renown had not vanished with the titles and connections Thorin had so easily severed, and it boiled now in his blood.

“Has a prince nothing better to amuse himself with?” he spat as he turned back to the Sindar elf

“I did not come here seeking amusement,” Legolas answered passively. “But rather an answer.”

“To what?” Kíli saw no reason to be polite. He knew full well what grievances lay between his fam… the Line of Durin and the woodland elves, and his own imprisonment in Thranduil’s hall had not caused him to look upon the King Thorin so hated with any more favour. He may have been cast out and shamed by his family, but that did not mean he would happily acquiesce to becoming some elven prince’s source of diversion.

“Your actions,” Legolas said smoothly, and there was something like a pensive frown on his face when Kíli turned to look at him directly again. “The deliverance of the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth.”

“Master Bard slew the dragon,” Kíli answered stiffly, not in any particular mood to defend the self-same actions that had caused the complete severance of his ties to his kin. "The destruction of Esgaroth deserved some form of recompense.”

“Even at the risk of defying your lord and king?”

Legolas was studying him now as if he were a complex puzzle in need of solving, and Kíli turned away in mingled shame and annoyance, stalking across the field to retrieve his arrows. Legolas was still seated, waiting, when he returned, and Kíli found it doubtful he would leave without an answer.

“What does it matter why I did it?” he said agitatedly. “It is done.”

“It clearly mattered to my father,” Legolas answered smoothly. “He bade me give you this.”

Confused, Kíli accepted the bundle the elf handed to him, feeling the distinctly familiar bulk that lay beneath the fabric. Not quite daring to believe it, he drew back the coverings, and stared in disbelief as his beloved bow, sword, dagger, and quiver all revealed themselves in the light of the coming dawn. They were things he had never thought to see again, and he struggled to comprehend the fact he was holding them in his hands once more. It seemed such a small thing, to have them returned to him, but in the light of all that had happened of late it meant far more than it possibly could have under other circumstances.

“We brought all the weapons taken from you and your comrades hither, at the request of Mithrandir,” Legolas told him, jerking him from his trance. “Apparently, he knew what he was about.”

Kíli nodded, not bothering to try and discern _how_ Gandalf could have known such was necessary. Instead he answered the elf with dry sarcasm that he figured was mildly more polite than his earlier anger. “I would thank you, Prince Legolas,” he told the Sindar elf. “Except for the fact these were mine to begin with.”

“Indeed.”

Something like a smirk danced briefly across the elven prince’s fair features, but if more had been meant to be uttered Kíli would not know, because it was at that hour that the trumpets of Dain Ironfoot’s company sounded across the valley, and all other matters were at once forgotten.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Fíli darted down the steps of the treasure room, uncaring that he set coins and gemstones scattering in his wake, or that the eyes of all the Company still below ground were suddenly upon him. He had eyes only for Thorin, the dwarf to whom his news must be imparted.

“Uncle…”

“Dain is here?” Thorin guessed, already straightening, an unfamiliar and unwelcome light in his eyes.

“Yes.” Fíli nodded, then just as swiftly shook his head. “But that is not all. Something is wrong, Thorin. Roac says there is another force from the north gathering near the southern spur. An army of goblins, orcs, and wargs.”

“What in Durin’s name are they doing here?” Gloin demanded, joining the rest of the Company in exchanging alarmed glances.

“What else?” Thorin swung about to face them all. “Gandalf slew the Goblin King, and we ourselves claimed the lives of many of their foul kind. All Azog would have to do is mention our names and he would have an army ready and waiting for him.”

“But they’re _goblins_ ,” Ori protested. “They can’t move in daylight.”

“That is what you must see,” Fíli pressed, desperate to get them out of the treasure room, away from the gold, where they might actually be able to _think_. "Thorin…”

His uncle was already moving at a pace just short of a run, and Fíli hastened to catch up, flanking the uncrowned King Under the Mountain as Thorin bounded up the stairs to the wall above, where Dwalin waited, leaning on his ax and staring with a grim face at the advancing bank of storm-clouds swallowing the horizon from the north.

“Winter is making itself known,” the warmaster observed, but Thorin shook his head as he moved to stand beside the bald warrior.

“That is no mere storm, Dwalin,” he said, voice grave. “Can you not feel it?”

Dwalin didn’t answer, and Fíli shuddered slightly, for he knew the reason for the warrior’s silence. It would have been impossible not to feel the oppressive sense of evil radiating off the advancing storm, so that even the lightning that flashed amongst the black clouds seemed an unwholesome thing.

“Hail, Thorin,” Roac’s croaking voice split the silence that had fallen, and Thorin turned to face the aging raven. “My tidings grow worse with each visit, it would seem.”

“One can not blame the messenger if all the news is ill,” Thorin replied. “What is happening out there?”

“Lord Dain and the neighbours on your doorstep nearly came to blows,” Roac answered. “But the wizard stopped them, and just as well too, for you have bigger things to contend with now than a simple hoard of wealth under threat. The force that moves beneath the black cloud is mighty indeed, over thrice what is gathered here already, and they come armed and ready for blood.”

“Let them,” Thorin retorted boldly. “Let them break themselves upon our walls. They will no sooner have Erebor than any other.”

“What of Dain?” Balin interjected, and Fíli blessed the old dwarf for sounding concerned about something other than gold. "Thorin, he came to your aid, and now he is trapped here along with all the others.”

“Erebor is worth more,” was Thorin’s flat reply.

Balin’s face did that funny little twist it always did when he disapproved and was trying to find a tactful way to phrase his disapprobation, but Fíli did not wait for the diplomat to gather himself, hoping that this time, with an apparent ally, he might be able to reach his uncle.

“Than the lives of our kin, Thorin?” he questioned. “Did Thror not say the same of Moria?”

“This is _not_ the same!” There was something almost wild about the way Thorin whirled on him, and for a moment, just a brief moment, Fíli thought he saw fear in the other dwarf’s eyes. It startled him, so that he did not speak to interrupt as Thorin continued, “Erebor is ours again, as Moria never could have been, and I will not allow those foul creatures to take what we have just reclaimed!”

“So you would sacrifice Dain and all his followers for the sake of preserving a home that may well stand empty when all is said and done and our kinsmen lie in piles of dead again?” Balin’s words were dark, his expression no less so. "We do not need another Azanulbizar, lad, truly we do not.”

“I am not my grandfather,” Thorin insisted, voice low and emphatic. "I will not make Thror’s mistakes my own.”

“You already have,” Fíli uttered softly, almost too softly to be heard, so that he wasn’t certain whether Thorin truly did send him a brief, searing glance or whether the gesture was simply his imagination. If Thorin had heard his words he did not answer them, turning back to Roac with another request for the old raven.

“What is Dain doing now?” he asked. “Can he reach the mountain?”

“Perhaps.” Roac tilted his head to the side in a gesture of consideration. “But I do not think he means to try. He is meeting now with the representatives of men and elves. I believe he intends to fight.”

“ _Fool_ ,” Thorin muttered. “He will be crushed.”

“And what good would hiding in the mountain do, in the end?” Balin turned on their uncrowned King. "Dain may have brought food and provisions, but we would only be trading one siege for another. We cannot simply hide behind our walls and let others fight this battle, Thorin. There is nothing inside Erebor worth abandoning all honour.”

His words summoned a murmur of agreement from the rest of the Company, and Fíli watched his uncle’s eyes dart from one dwarf to another, something furtive in his gaze, before at last his stare met Fíli’s own. The King’s heir had his own argument to make, one Thorin may very well discard entirely, for he had already undermined its worth with his previous actions, but Fíli chose to make it nonetheless.

“Kíli is out there, uncle,” he said, not flinching in the face of possible wrath. “And I will not leave him to fight alone.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli had never been more terrified than when Dain’s men had been about to set upon the combined forces of Bard and Thranduil. It had been a terrible moment, watching the end he had sacrificed practically everything to stop come about despite his efforts, and his heart had not steadied to a regular rhythm until long after the calamity had passed. Or perhaps he should say _a_ calamity, for, no sooner had one been averted, with many thanks to Gandalf, then another rose in its place.

He was now seated, along with a number of Thranduil’s sharpest eyes, on the lower slopes of the mountain’s southern spur, just below the old dwarvish watchpost of Ravenhill, with his bow resting across his knees as he watched their enemy’s numbers grow and grow. Goblins, orcs, and wargs, gathering in readiness for an assault on the mountain with Azog at their head, intent on having their revenge. For Azog’s arm. For the Great Goblin. For the riches of Erebor the orcs had no use for, but would gladly liberate from the hands of others. Kíli had never seen a force of such size, and seeing it now, amassing on the horizon in readiness to attack, he could not help but recall Thorin’s stories of Moria, the outnumbered dwarves, and the many deaths that had darkened that victory beyond redemption.

Even as he sat there Thranduil, Bard, and Dain were taking council, their hostility of less than an hour before buried beneath the sudden and alarming knowledge that they faced an enemy that outnumbered even their combined forces by many. Kíli could have been with them, putting all his own strategic training to good use, but he had never been as good at planning his battles as Fíli had despite their shared studies, and he feared his presence in the same room as Dain might only lead to strife. No doubt Thorin had shared the tale of Kíli’s treachery with his cousin, and the last thing any of them needed right now was further distraction.

At his back the camp was noisily buzzing as the men, elves, and dwarves prepared for war, but up on the rise a still breath lingered, the air quiet and unmoving in preparation for what was to come. One could almost have mistaken the atmosphere for peaceful, had it not been for the thread of unease vibrating all around them as even the elves, their fair faces unusually grim and without the joyous laughter of a few hours before, reflected the dire nature of their standing. They did not betray it so easily as the men did, but there were signs for those who looked to see how hopeless most believed this situation to be.

“Prince Kíli?”

Turning at the hail, Kíli rose as he spotted Bard and Thranduil approaching, Gandalf and Bilbo, along with the elven King’s honour guard, following at the two lords’ heels. Further back he could see Dain and his own closest men angling away across the camp towards the dwarvish army at a cracking pace. A decision had clearly been made.

Joining him on the apex of the rise, Bard took a moment to loosely outline the strategy they had decided upon, explaining how they meant to use the two spurs that nestled the valley between them as as much of an advantage as they could get. A small force would draw the enemy in through the gap between Dale’s western wall and Ravenhill, leading them into the midst of the valley, where both the forces of the free people would have the advantage of height. Kíli suspected the man was not so much sharing his plan as running it through his mind as a means of seeking out any holes he and his companions had not yet foreseen. He listened nonetheless, and even as they talked the separate forces were already in motion, marching in orderly columns towards their designated points.

It was only once Bard was done that Kíli broke his silence, inclining his head towards the Esgarothian lord as he said, “And where do you want me, Master Bowman?”

“Your Halfling friend intends to stand alongside the elves,” Bard answered with a grim smile. “I would have you stand with me, if you would, and the rest of the archers. We will need every skilled hand we can muster.”

Kíli merely nodded his assent, throat too dry to offer an audible response, and set about burying his fear as deeply as it would go.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

_‘He is leading us to our death, brother.’_

High upon the walls of Erebor Thorin Oakenshield stood alone, the rest of his companions banished to the depths to arm themselves on Dwalin’s command, the warmaster having taken matters into his own hands when his friend and king remained uncharacteristically indecisive. Dwalin would go no further without him, he knew, but the very fact he had done so much already was a clear sign that his unshakable faith in Thorin was wavering. The two of them had known, and trusted, one another for too many years to count. They had fought together, grieved together, _survived_ together time and time again, and for Dwalin to doubt him now…

In truth he could not blame his old friend, for he doubted himself.

‘ _Will you not speak to him?’_

Moria. It was a memory that would remain forever engraved on his mind. A nightmare he could not banish. The moment when Thror’s insanity had reached its peak and nearly brought an entire people to ruin. The battle had been horrific, but more deeply engraved upon Thorin’s mind were the events that had preceded it, and the clear, unhidden fear that had shone in his brother’s eyes as Frerin begged him to act.

_‘There is still time to turn back, if you could just make him see…’_

Frerin hadn’t understood how deep Thror’s madness ran. He hadn’t realized that Thorin had already used every plea he could think of to try and make his grandfather cease what was surely a crusade to their deaths. But he _had_ seen Moria for what it was, a shining prize held aloft to draw them in like moths to a lantern, only to be struck dead the moment they drew near to the light. Moria had been death disguised as a future, and now Erebor threatened to become the same.

The boom of thunder overhead had drowned out the mighty crash of the battle commencing, but Thorin had not needed to hear it to see the terrible act unfolding. It was not a fair fight, and Roac had not overestimated the extent to which the free peoples would find themselves at a disadvantage.

_‘I have tried, Frerin, but he is King, his will cannot be gainsaid.’_

_Bitter. Resigned. Afraid. ‘A true King would not ask this of us.’_

He had promised himself he never would. He had sworn that Thror’s fall would not be his own, that he would never require death of those who followed him. He had vowed to be what his grandfather should have been, a king who would never have sent his grandson to his death and doom, who would value blood above gold, kin above treasure… a resolution he had turned his back on the moment he drew his blade on his own nephew, and sent Kíli to die in battle as surely as Thror had sent Frerin. It was Moria all over again, but this time _he_ was the mad king, and Fíli and his younger brother seemed tragically bound to play the roles he and his own sibling once had.

“I am sorry,” he whispered aloud, and knew not to whom he was speaking. His fallen brother, his wide-eyed fool of a nephew out there somewhere in that mass of death and destruction, or the elder brother down below who may yet come to bear the same burden of failure and grief he himself had shouldered for years.

 _‘Do not be sorry.’ Dís glared at him over their brother’s grave, fierce and sorrowful at once. ‘_ Do _something_.’

And he did.

Swinging on his heel he strode swiftly to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the hall below, utterly unsurprised to find the Company already preparing to lower the barricade they had raised in the place of the gates to use as a bridge instead.

“Wait!” His shout stilled them all, most looking decidedly uneasy, few bearing the absolute faith they once had, in him or themselves. The battle had awakened them all, it seemed. It had shown them how far they had fallen. “Leave it,” he commanded, in answer to their unvoiced question.

“No.” Fíli stepped forward, and this time Thorin was not surprised. “Uncle, this is our fight as much as it is theirs. We need to help them!”

Thorin had to admire his nephew’s spirit, but he still shook his head. “Pulling that gate down now will not help them.”

“Well, I, for one, am not going to stay here, caged like fish in a barrel,” Bofur spoke up from his corner of the room, his cousin and brother alike backing him up without words.

“You will not open that gate.” He made it an unmovable command this time.

Dwalin was watching him, a considering expression on his face, or perhaps it was a knowing one. He had years spent in Thorin’s company to pull from, he probably realized what was truly afoot here, even if the others could not see it. Balin, too, held his peace, and it was Fíli who once again took the lead, closing the space between them, anger on his young face.

“Kíli is out there!” he all but shouted, accusation dripping from every word. “You _promised_ mother you would watch over him! You cannot just _leave_ him to die!”

“I am not.” Thorin stepped forward suddenly, seizing Fíli by the shoulders and meeting his enraged gaze directly. "Fíli, I am _not_ , I swear, but we must wait. You have seen the battlefield yourself. We would not get near any of our allies without being cut to pieces if we went now.”

“But…” With his hands resting on Fíli’s shoulders, Thorin could feel the fine tremors wracking the young dwarf’s frame. "Kíli is…”

“I know.” Kíli was where Thorin had put him. Where greed and madness had put him. It fell to Thorin, then, to retrieve him safely. “But we will find him, Fíli. There will be no promises broken this day.”

 


	6. The Last Stand of the Line of Durin

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 6**

**_ The Last Stand of the Line of Durin _ **

 

Kíli would remember the battle later as nothing but a large blur with a few moments of clarity that stood out from their surroundings like a black spot of ink on Ori’s white parchment. The enemy seemed endless, and he had spent his arrows long before he could see a visible dent in their ranks. Both armies were beset with numbers too great for them to readily repel, isolated on their separate ridges, surrounded and cut off from retreat. He fought back to back with whomever would stand beside him, the comforting weight of a familiar blade in his hand, his empty quiver jostling against his spine with every impact. There was an enemy before him no matter where he turned, orc, goblin or warg, and he was never still. He had lost track of Bard early on in the fight, when Azog proved himself not so easily fooled and another company of orcs who had climbed the mountain came raining down on them from above, and in the melee that followed it was all he could do to keep himself on the hilltop, and not in the midst of the enemy ranks who worked to slowly but determinedly whittle away their numbers.

Kíli, as an heir of Durin, had studied warfare and tactics in his youth, even as such skills had seemed unnecessary in the far-off, peaceful realm of the Blue Mountains, but he did not need his knowledge of either to see that the creatures of shadow were slowly overwhelming them. The united peoples had nowhere to flee, the way back to their camps cut off and flight to the mountain equally untenable, and their numbers had been effectively divided by the sea of orcs and goblins that now made their two ridges as islands in the midst of uncrossable waters. Islands infested with savage monsters who desired nothing more than their deaths. They were losing, he realized, even as he swung his blade back and forth in rapid strikes to keep his foe at bay. They were losing, and it seemed that not even Gandalf could change the tide.

And it was in that moment, just as hope died within him, that Erebor shook to the great war cry of Thorin Oakenshield, and aid came unlooked for from the mountain’s depths.

Kíli saw the Company he had once belonged to burst forth from the mountain’s shadow. Shining brilliantly in the finest armour Erebor had ever wrought, they carved a ruthless path through the enemy, cleaving their way through the immovable ranks as easily as a knife through butter. Elves, men, and dwarves alike rallied at the sight, and many streamed down from the hills to join in the charge. Reinvigorated, the united peoples fought on with new energy, taking advantage of the bewilderment that now took their adversary. For a short time, it even seemed as if victory was at hand, the shadowy army giving way before them, but in their excitement the forces of men, elves, and dwarves had overlooked the greatest flaw in Thorin’s strategy. The King Under the Mountain had too few men to support him, his flanks were exposed, his rear unguarded, and in a circle around him the enemy now closed. Kíli, now standing on a sharp, rocky ridge slightly above his once-comrades, watched with his heart in his mouth as the Company closed ranks around their leader, only to be torn apart and made to stand alone by the orcs.

At first he did not understand this reasoning. It seemed ludicrous for the orcs to spend lives separating the dwarves when they simply could have taken them all together, but his confusion lasted only as long as it took him to see Azog, striding proudly through the mayhem atop his white warg, mace in hand, and escort to either side. His guard darted forward as they neared Thorin, all mounted, and Kíli very nearly cried out as he saw the dwarf king so beset, outnumbered and alone. Thorin fought with the same wild fire and eerie grace as he had always possessed, driving the enemy back again and again, but it could only last for so long. One of the wargs attacked from behind, Thorin fell, and Azog spurred his own mount on to finish the kill.  

Kíli was moving before he was even aware of his own limbs shifting, belting along the narrow ridge with as much speed as he had within him, reaching the end, and flinging himself off into space. The Warg turned as he leapt, having seen him out of the corner of its eye, but his flight did not take him far enough for its jaws to close around him. Instead he fell short, turning his forward momentum into a roll that took him beneath the creature’s neck as he threw all his strength into cleaving his sword through the warg’s neck. It broke through flesh and rock hard bone to sever the great White Warg's neck almost cleanly in half, and the creature's dying scream was all but deafening. Kíli rose from his roll with wavering stability, the noise seeming to ring inside his very skull as he staggered forward, and that brief moment of imbalance would cost him everything.

Though an enraged growl behind him warned him of what was coming long before it struck, he did not have footing enough beneath him to turn in time to parry. The mace caught him instead across the shoulder and tore along his flank in passing to knock him flat on his back. He screamed as he felt bone giving way beneath the force of the blow, hitting the ground hard, air rushing from his lungs in a single gasp, and when he tried to breathe in again he found he could not, fingers as strong and hard as iron closing about his throat and lifting him bodily into the air as Azog leered at him mockingly.

"You have my admiration, dwarfling," he sneered, his voice a foul grate against Kíli’s ears. "You have accomplished a mighty feat in slaying my mount. It is just as well. Your kin shall have a great deed to carve upon your tomb _._ "

Frantic, his lungs screaming for a reprieve and his shoulder erupting into fiery agony, Kíli clawed uselessly at Azog's unmoving hand with his own still functioning limb, failing utterly to loosen the pale orc's hold. He had lost his sword when the mace struck him, leaving him unarmed and helpless save for... His hand flew to his quiver strap, fingers closing around the dagger that hung there. Drawing it forth in a single, smooth motion he drove it with all the strength he could muster into Azog's wrist. The Orc gave an enraged howl before all but flinging him away. Kíli's back hit unforgiving stone a second time, only this time his head connected with the solid surface as well, blood trailing down his face from an injury he could not see. Lying at Azog's feet he gasped for breath as black spots danced before his eyes and his tortured throat and shattered shoulder screamed their protests. He could see his knife trapped in Azog's flesh, and it was with a vague sense of disinterest that he saw the monster raising his mace high above his head.

The mace fell, and as it did a great bellow of rage, unmistakably Thorin, split the air. His blade, one of those retrieved from the hoard of Erebor, met the pale orc's bludgeon a mere foot from Kíli's unprotected chest, and he watched, still trapped in a shadowy world of indistinct twilight, as Thorin utterly repelled Azog's blow, taking a stance with a foot placed on either side of the fallen Kíli as he proudly stared the bane of both his grandfather and father down.

"Ah, Thorin son of Thráin, at long last." Kíli struggled to understand the words in his dazed state. "I was beginning to think I would have to cut down all your kin before you would face me again."

Thorin did not reply, invoking the strongest weapon he had ever borne; silence. There were few who could stand before the soundless stare of the King under the Mountain and still stand steady.

"Let us finish this, then!" Azog roared, swinging his weapon again, and Thorin leapt forward to meet him. The battle moved out of Kíli's line of sight, and he was forced to simply listen to the clang of metal on metal that sounded all around him, desperately trying to distinguish the sound of his uncle's brand amongst the rest. A flash of blond hair and a cry more readily known to him than Thorin's let him know that Fíli had joined the fight, and he let his eyes slide closed, knowing there was nothing more he could for either of them.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

" _Kíli_!"

Dazed and dizzy, it was Fíli's desperate scream that caused Thorin to lurch back into a state of mind fit for battle. He had been braced for death moments before, splayed on the ground and too winded to rise. That death had not come had surprised him, momentarily robbing him of his honed battle senses, but Fíli's voice, stricken with horror, had brought them all rushing back, and he was on his feet before the final echoes of his nephew's cry had faded.

Thorin's life was not devoid of horror. He had dozens of nightmarish memories to draw from should he choose, but none of them, not a single one, could compare to the awfulness of seeing his youngest nephew dangling in the air, suspended by Azog's hand on his throat. It was worse than watching his grandfather’s beheading, worse than his brother’s mutilation, worse than the mountain of corpses that had been stacked against Moria’s gates. Worse, because this was his _nephew_ , the young dwarf he had played a part in raising, and the only reason Kíli was in danger was because he had come to _Thorin’s_ rescue.

But he would not lose another. Not to that _beast_.

He ran, flying across the ground between he and they, blessing Kíli's persistence as he watched the archer drive a dagger through Azog's arm just below his hand. The pale orc's retaliation was brutal, and Thorin let out a cry of both desperation and outrage as he leapt the last of the distance, bringing his sword to bear at the last possible moment. With a mighty thrust he forced Azog back, then adjusted his stance so he was standing over his fallen kin.

Azog spoke then, a cruel twist of his lips signifying his triumph, but Thorin blocked out the words and drew back his anger, allowing calm focus to take its place. There was no room for blind fury on the battlefield, their last confrontation had taught him that lesson well enough, and the stakes here today were too high to needlessly imperil the outcome of this fight. They were both wounded and, though Azog was doubtlessly fresher to the fight, this was likely to be the most even footing they would stand on.

He did not mean to waste the opportunity.

Blade and bludgeon met with a thundering crash as Thorin stepped to the side, letting his sword move with the overpowering weight of Azog’s thrust. The orc captain had brute strength on his side, but his one good hand was crippled, so Thorin kept himself to that side, out of reach of the weapon that had replaced his adversary’s left arm, acutely aware of the way Azog’s followers had backed off in deference to their leader’s duel. Instead they formed a ring around this small part of a larger battlefield, ensuring escape was not possible, and perhaps ensuring only one of the participants would survive no matter which was victorious.

They were not enough to keep Fíli from his side, however, and Thorin was both relieved and alarmed to see his elder nephew break through the circle of enemies, his swift flight bringing him directly at Azog from the opposite side. There was rage on the blond prince’s face, and Thorin quickly closed quarters with his opponent, determined not to allow the pale orc to take advantage of Fíli’s lack of caution. His blade intercepted Azog’s mace once more, the two weapons snapping together like two pieces of a puzzle, the one caught on the other, unbalancing them both as Fíli swept in and under the claw Azog had clearly meant to cleave him in two. The blond dwarf was quick to abandon the strike of sword that had lost its strength in his avoidance of certain death, and instead drove one of his smaller knives through a gap in their enemy’s armour.

Enraged, Azog let go of his mace entirely, making Thorin stagger back as the counterweight to the force he was exerting suddenly gave way. Azog dismissed him, swinging about to thrust Fíli away with savage ferocity. The young dwarf sailed through the air and landed roughly, but he began scrambling to his feet again swiftly enough that Thorin knew no true harm had been dealt.

And Azog was now unarmed.

Summoning his strength Thorin raced forward, his sword up and swinging, but Azog turned to meet him, catching the blade in his claw and throwing his power against Thorin’s own. Thorin could not hope to hold him for long, not with Azog bringing all his weight to bear, but he dug in his heels regardless, grasping his sword in both hands and simply holding himself in place. He only needed to buy a few precious seconds. He only needed to allow Azog’s mistake in ignoring Fíli to become a fatal one.

His nephew was quick, light on his feet as he darted across the space between them, blade up and swinging even as their captive audience suddenly realized the peril their leader was in and began to riot in protest. Fíli did not go for the killing strike, choosing not to end Azog then and there in retribution for his brother’s injury. Instead Thorin’s heir stepped in behind the great, pale orc even as Azog turned to intercept the expected fatal blow at a higher point, embedding one of his swords as deeply as it would go into the foul creature’s leg. Taken by surprise Azog howled, crashing to his knees, and Thorin tilted his sword down and away, letting it slid free of the orc’s claw, leaving his enemy open to attack.

In the end it only took one stroke.

Azog’s wretched skull bounded across the ground, a snarl forever etched onto his vile features, and the world around both Fíli and Thorin grew suddenly quiet. Unable to take the time to relish a victory that had been overly long in coming Thorin adjusted his grip on his blade and straightened, pushing his exhaustion away as he readied for what was sure to be a flood of enemies raining down upon them with naught but blood and vengeance on their minds.

That flood never came.

An elven company broke through from the left flank, the Prince of Mirkwood at their head, and set upon the orcs with dire intent. Leaderless, suddenly bereft of their captain, the enemy ranks parted beneath the onslaught, slowly but steadily falling back as the elven troop gained ground, and Thorin found himself outright staring as the Greenwood’s prince directed his soldiers in what could only be a manoeuvre of defence. Fíli was quicker to the realization than he, and Thorin started as his nephew cast his weapons aside for the second time, this time in wild abandon as he flew to his fallen brother’s side.

“Kíli!”

Thorin would have reprimanded him for casting his only means of protection away in the middle of the battleground, were it not for the cold terror silencing his voice. Instead he staggered somewhat unsteadily after his eldest nephew, crashing to his knees beside the pair as Fíli cupped his brother’s pale face in his hands.

“Kíli, wake up. Please, Ki, open your eyes. _Please_.”

No answer was forthcoming, and Thorin forced his gaze away from Kíli’s still and bloodless features to peel back the soaked layers of his tunic and examine the damage Azog had inflicted. His heart sank as he realized his nephew had entered the battle with nothing more than the light armour they had been given in Laketown; Weak, inferior, and certainly not capable of withstanding the brute force of Azog’s attack. But the damage incurred by Esgaroth’s lacklustre wares was not his concern, and Thorin set to work on removing the mangled remains of Kíli’s breastplate, his breath leaving him in a sharp hiss as his eyes fell upon the mangled flesh, blood, and bone that was Kíli’s right shoulder. The mace had struck there, the full force of Azog’s blow, but the spiked ends of the terrible weapon had gauged Kíli’s side as they passed, leaving deep rents in his flank. There was blood. There was a lot of blood, and Thorin found himself suddenly at a loss, his hands shaking with the realization of just how _bad_ Kíli’s wounds were.

“Uncle?” Fíli eyes had drifted from his brother’s face, the title he uttered a tremulous question, and when Thorin glanced up he found the elder brother’s eyes fixed with stark terror on his younger sibling’s injury.

“Put pressure here,” he ordered, trying not to think of what additional pain they might inflict in trying to save the young dwarf’s life. Waiting a beat to be sure Fíli obeyed despite his blanching reaction Thorin started to his feet, whirling in search of his companions. Most were nowhere to be seen, separated from their King and commander long ago, but Balin and Dwalin had made it within the circle, and it was to them he now turned.

"Where is Oin?" he demanded. "Find him! Swiftly!"

He did not wait to see them go, his attention drawn back to his nephew’s face as Kíli stirred, a pitiful moan of agony escaping his lips as his eyelids fluttered erratically.

"Kíli?" Fíli leant forward and Thorin did the same, searching for that flash of brown, that precious sign of life. "Come on, Ki. Open your eyes for me. "

Kíli whimpered, his face a mask of pain, and when his eyes did at last open, glazed and unfocussed, he did not look at Fíli but past him, straight into the visage of Thorin Oakenshield.

"I did not mean to," he whispered, voice a threadbare strand, woven with guilt as tears carved tracks in the grime on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I did not mean..."

Thorin almost staggered back in shock. _By Aule, what have I don_ e?

"Hush, Kíli." Kneeling again he reached out to mirror the stance Fíli had held moments before, resting a hand on either side of his younger nephew’s pain etched features, holding Kíli’s gaze with his own. "It is forgiven. It is all forgiven. Just hold on a little while longer. Just a little longer."

“It won’t stop bleeding.” Fíli’s control was slipping, Thorin could hear the raw panic seeping into his voice. "Thorin, it won’t…”

He chanced a glance at where Fíli’s hands were pressed and immediately wished he had not. There was far, far too much blood. He turned back to Kíli’s face only to find there was no longer any focus in his eyes, the archer’s gaze pointed upwards instead, his features absolutely colourless, his face a mask of anguish.

Where, in Durin’s name, was Oin?

“Move aside, quickly, both of you!”

But it was not Oin who shoved him aside with a wooden stave, nor was it Oin who crouched now at Kíli’s side, one hand hovering over the young dwarf’s wounds without actually touching anything. Thorin was once again rendered speechless by Gandalf’s timely arrival, even more so when he recognized the Halfling who had led the wizard to their part of the battlefield.

“Can you help him?” Fíli was begging unashamedly, his face streaked with tears. “Gandalf? Can you save him?”

“These wounds are beyond my skill to heal,” the wizard answered gravely, and Thorin wavered for more reasons than simple exhaustion.

“I can get a litter,” Bilbo suggested quickly. “They’ve been carrying the wounded off the field with…”

“No time for that.” Gandalf brushed his suggestion aside, instead thrusting his staff upon the startled hobbit and stooping to gather Kíli in his own arms. The wounded dwarf cried out at the sudden jostling, then fell utterly limp. Gandalf, effectively ignoring them all, turned as if to leave, but Thorin regained his voice before the wizard could depart.

“Gandalf!”

The being bearing the appearance of a weary, old man yet carrying a weight no such man could have carried turned at his hale, and Thorin did not flinch from the wizard’s gaze. There were many things he could have said in that moment, and perhaps more that he should have, but the only words that escaped him were the simplest and purest desire in his heart in that single moment.

“Keep him safe.”

It was not a smile he received in return, for none could have smiled under the circumstances they now lingered in, but it was the closest to such an expression that Thorin believed he would see.

“You have my word,” Gandalf promised, and then he was gone, taking the hobbit and Thorin’s nephew with him. Fíli moved as if to follow, but Thorin stayed him with a hand on his sleeve.

“Uncle,” Fíli protested at once. “He’s my brother. I want to…”

“I know.” Were it up to him, he would have allowed Fíli to go, but the battle was not yet done, and it was clear that they needed every able pair of hands to be wielding a weapon. “But the fight is not over, and we need you here.”

Fíli hesitated, poised to argue, and so Thorin spoke again.

“Not even the wizard will be able to help Kíli if the enemy reaches the camp. We have a duty, Fíli, and we cannot ignore it.”

The look his nephew shot him was one of anguished indecision, Fíli’s gaze darting along the path the wizard had cloven, then back to the enemy regrouping in the valley below. It was a terrible choice, Thorin knew, just as he knew Fíli would choose the right course. He was not disappointed, for, when indecision was finally swept away by resolve, Fíli moved to retrieve his discarded weapons, clutching both in his hands with a white knuckled grip as he joined his uncle in moving to flank the elven guard that had come to their defence when they needed it most. From their position they could see the goblin army now racing towards them once more. Having found their labile courage beneath the whip of a new captain they battered their way through every defence raised before them, and Thorin once more found himself pressing concerns and exhaustion from his mind, focusing himself for a battle that may well be his last. There was no retreat from this point, with the mountain cut off from reach, and flight to the camps meaning nothing but death for the wounded luckily enough to have been borne from the field that far.

There was no retreat, and so they stood firm, shoulder to shoulder, King and Prince, and faced their doom head on.

 


	7. The Price of Forgiveness

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 7**

 

**_ The Price of Forgiveness _ **

 

Kíli was lost.

Phantom shapes whirled around him, black and white silhouettes so blurred he could hardly distinguish one from the other. Voices came and went, human and inhuman, vicious murmurs and fearful cries, a crescendo that dulled to a whisper before rising to an unbearable wail, the words uttered eluding him. Hands pawed at him, igniting the fire licking at his side and shoulder, turning it into a fully fledged blaze that caused his body to jerk sporadically as fingers tightened in a bruising hold to keep him still. Something hard was pressed to his lips as a cold liquid meandered its way down his aching throat. He choked more often than not, struggling to swallow whilst not fully aware, and the voices rose in seeming despair at his inadequacy.

A noise escaped him that might have been a sob, and he struggled against the unseen weight pressing down against him. Why was it so hot? Had he fallen into fire without marking his descent? And the pain... Pain in his side, flaring about his shoulder and stretching across his torso in ripples of agony. He flinched as a cool hand landed on his brow, but the touch was not withdrawn even as another pair of hands adjusted the weight he now realized was a coverlet.

When...?

"He is getting worse," someone murmured, and he thought it might have been Bilbo. "Isn't there something you can do?"

His answer came in a heavy sigh, and Kíli could not stop the noise of protest that churned in his throat when that blessedly cool touch was removed.

"Even wizards have their limits, Bilbo Baggins," was Gandalf's answer. "I fear I have reached mine."

The wizard and the hobbit only. None of the Company seemed to be present, and for a moment his fevered mind panicked at that realization. Then the memory of what had happened above Erebor's gate came flooding back, and Kíli was reminded of why he no longer had the right to expect the presence of any friends save those already lurking at his bedside.

Another wave of pain hit him, not wholly due to his wounds, and he cried out as his mind abandoned control of his body. He heard raised voices, shouts directed at him as hands flew to hold his convulsing form still, but he twisted away from their touch, their fingers scalding against his skin. The world closed in around him, he couldn't breathe, and he remembered the way those vice-like fingers had closed about his neck. His hand jerked of its own accord, searching for the blade that would free him, but his fingers closed on empty space as a sickly sweet scent filled the air.

"Fíli!" His brother's name escaped his lips in a frantic cry, even as he knew it would not go answered. Exiled, Thorin had said. Cast out. Cut off. Abandoned. He screamed his uncle's name regardless, seconds before something cold and sickly sweet again scalded its choking path down his throat.

"Drink!" a foreign voice coaxed. "You must drink."

But he fought instead, screaming out names whose right to utter he no longer possessed. He almost made it up off the bed in defiance to his injuries, then another grip joined the others in a splayed hand across his chest, and he was pressed back down onto the pallet.

"Please," he did not know what he was saying, or to whom, for the words simply came of their own accord and his vision was nothing more than a hazy blur of colours. "Please. I am sorry, _please_."

Someone answered his words in a distant rumble that went marked but unheard as the strain of clinging to the conscious world became too much. Darkness closed in, and the light was swept away.

Time slipped away from him, passing in alternating fits of haste and absolute stillness, when a single moment dragged on for a seeming eternity. He saw blurred colours and looming shadows, heard many voices intermingled, his own sometimes among them, though he did not recall uttering a sound. There was heat and there was cold, gripping him one after the other, and when he moved, when he thrashed to escape the furnace, there was pain. White, blinding pain rippling down his shoulder and side. It, too, ebbed and flowed, leaving him gasping for breath in the interim and robbed completely of air when each reprieve ended.

He was conscious of not being alone in his torment, words drifting around him more often than not, hands alternating their grip between his hand, his arm, and his shoulder. But none of those who watched over him seemed aware of the fire trying to burn him alive. He tried to tell Bofur once, or the shadow he believed to be Bofur, but the cheerful toymaker simply smoothed his damp hair away from his face and told him to go back to sleep. He did not do so willingly, but his body craved the surrender his mind did not wish to give, and the one easily overpowered the other.

He remembered waking once to Balin's presence and asking in a voice too weak to be his own after his brother. He had drifted off before a response could be given, though the gentle smile that had slipped so suddenly from the old dwarf's face haunted his restless slumber. He voiced the same question again and again each time he startled back to a state of wakefulness, but the myriad of different faces that greeted him always withheld a response, and he could rarely muster the strength for a scowl before sleep claimed him once more.

Awareness, when it came at long last, came slowly and reluctantly, much like the time he had fallen into the frigid, rushing waters of a winter flood only to have them close over him and refuse to open again. Someone had dragged him from the black depths then, but this time he was forced to drag himself, resisting the persistent pull that threatened to haul him back again. There was a pressing urgency at the back of his mind driving him onwards and upwards, and, though his eyes remained leaden weights, his ears attuned themselves to the conversation drifting all around him.

"...going to tell him?" Dwalin asked in a low rumble. "You can't put it off forever."

"I know." Balin sighed, sounding weary and heartsick. "But you heard what the healer said..."

Dwalin snorted. "The _elf_ healer," he emphasized. "Dwarves have stouter hearts. We don't fade with grief."

Balin made a noise that could have been either agreement or disagreement, Kíli would never know, for at that point his eyes finally decided to respond to his prompting, flickering open to be scorched by a cruelly bright light. Groaning in protest he tried to throw up a hand to shield his gaze, only to find his right arm bound tightly again his chest, utterly immobile. The moment of confusion he spent deducing that fact was enough time for Dwalin to shut the open tent flap, cutting off the bright beam of setting sunlight that had been flooding through the entrance.

"Kíli?" Balin sounded tentatively hopeful. "Are you with us, laddie?"

"Maybe," he muttered hoarsely, voice further muffled by the left arm he had thrown up in the place of his right. The more awake he became the more aware he was of the numerous aches and pains assailing him, and he sincerely wished in that moment to return to the slumber he had fought so hard to escape. Waking up had no right to be this _painful_ , and he had half a mind to go back to sleep until it decided to act as it ought.

Dwalin gave a low chuckle at his response, and Kíli's raised his arm just enough to cast a sour glare the warmaster's way. This only appeared to amuse him more, so that he was laughing outright by the time he reached the bedside.

"Here you go," he prompted, masterfully avoiding Kíli's tightly bound shoulder as he hefted the archer up into a sitting position, balancing him on several pillows, though most felt too hard to _be_ actual pillows. "Let's get you upright."

Kíli, with full agreement from his spinning head, would have much preferred to stay lying down. At least at first. Once the tent stopped swaying like a drunken, dancing dwarf and the black spots jumping across his line of sight vanished sitting up was far more pleasurable than being laid out flat on his back, especially when Bombur appeared with impossibly fortuitous timing bearing a steaming bowl in hand. It was only broth, nothing like the magnificent stews their self-appointed cook had prepared when their supplies were plentiful, but Kíli was too ravenous to care, completely ignoring Balin's cautionary words and his own unsteady grip as he wolfed down his first meal in Durin knew how long.

With his hunger temporarily satisfied, Kíli could feel drowsiness setting in again, but he shook it off determinedly, wanting answers, and knowing he would not get them if he fell asleep. Instead he used his good arm to push himself further upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with stubborn persistence that easily surmounted the incomprehensibly difficult task that proved to be. Balin was making noises of disapproval behind him, urging him not to try standing yet, and Kíli obeyed only because he was certain his current position would be enough to stop him from drifting off.

Impatiently, he waited until Bombur had left the room, then, into the silence that fell, he spoke, "Mr. Balin?"

Did he imagine the glance that was exchanged between the two before a gentle answer came? "Yes, Kíli?"

"Thorin and Fíli," he ventured, and certainly didn't imagine the look this time. "Where are they? Did... Is Thorin still angry at me?"

A reprieve had likely been too much to ask for, after what he had done, but seeing Balin and Dwalin here had given him hope. Looking at their faces now, though, he knew he must have been mistaken. Thorin had not forgiven him, and his words uttered above Erebor's front gate still stood.

"Kíli, lad," Balin began, and Kíli braced himself for the blow the old dwarf was trying to soften. "Thorin _did_ forgive you, though I daresay you weren't in any fit state to hear his words, let alone comprehend what was being said."

"But, then..." The churning of his stomach was not at all due to the haste with which he had consumed the broth. "Where is he? Where's Fíli?"

"He's dead," Balin said heavily. "I'm sorry, Kíli, they both are."

Kíli froze, the words slamming into him with as much force as Azog’s mace had as his world collapsed around him for the second time. His heart felt like it had been trapped between hammer and anvil, pounded relentlessly until the pain became the only rhythm he had ever known. His lungs refused to draw breath, a great weight on his chest that made even the slightest inhale ache with a ferocity he could not understand, and his eyes burned. Oh, how they burned! Tears, hot and scalding, seething to life, though not quite ready to fall. Through vision blurred by their lingering wetness, he watched Balin’s lips continue to move without hearing a single word, the ghastly pressure holding him immobile shielding him from further pain, even as he struggled to comprehend the initial onslaught.

_Dead_.

It was but a single word, and yet it carved a searing path through his mind that irreparably rent his heart in two, leaving him balancing on wavering limbs, unsure how he had come to be standing, and wondering what had become of the solid ground that had once lain beneath his feet. Of the solid presence that had once stood beside and before him. He wanted to say something. _Ought_ to say something. Demand circumstances, proof, _anything_ , but he remained trapped, rough iron forced between anvil and hammer, beaten now into a fine steel with a lethal edge.

“Kíli.” Dwalin’s hand landed on his shoulder, and his head turned of its own accord to meet the dour dwarf’s oddly compassionate gaze. “Do you need to sit down?”

_Does he_? The question left him feeling no less dazed, and he wavered a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels and only half heeding the way Dwalin took a hold of his arm by the elbow to steady him.

“No…” he heard himself say, the word as distant as all that now surrounded him, still raspy from the unforgiving hands that had all but crushed his windpipe days before. “No, I… I don’t…” His eyes fixed themselves on Balin, still standing before him, but no longer speaking, and the haze of shock hovering over his mind finally abated just enough for those terrible, _terrible_ words to spill from his lips. “They’re _dead_?”

“Aye, lad,” Balin’s gaze was wary, and grieved. Deeply, _deeply_ grieved. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” The words struck him as hilarious for no reason at all, and he laughed, the sound brittle and broken. So very _broken_. Balin frowned then, and that was even funnier, though for the life of him Kíli could not understand why. Why? That was the question now, wasn’t it? _Why_? _Why?_ _WHY_? “You’re sor… They can’t be dead.”

He would _know_. If Fíli was gone. If he was departed from the land of the living, Kíli would _know_. He would have felt his heart twist and break already, as the other half he had never had to do without vanished completely. He would _know_.

“Kíli,” Balin was trying to be gentle, but at the same time firm. “I saw them fall myself, lad, they’re gone.”

Kíli stared at him a moment, frozen in that way Fíli always teased him about, like a rabbit caught suddenly without its cover, his eyes wide and face still. Then rage broke over him in a sudden, all encompassing wave, and he lunged at the elder dwarf, fury bringing words that sparked with ire to his lips.

“ _Liar_!” Dwalin pulled him back, and he fought the seasoned warrior wildly, even as his gaze remained on Balin’s saddened expression. “You _lie_! They’re not _dead_. Thorin wouldn’t _die_! He wouldn’t let Fíli… He wouldn’t…”

The ground pitched beneath him suddenly, his body protesting the sudden exertion he had inflicted upon it, and he was on the floor before he could quite comprehend what had happened. He continued to struggle regardless, even as another voice added itself to the cacophony that seemed to have arisen around him.

"Hold him! _Hold_ him! For Durin’s sake, keep that shoulder still!"

They pinned him on his back, Balin seizing a hold of his legs and Dwalin wrapping an arm about his chest, holding both shoulders to the floor as Oin shouted instructions. Kíli fought them for all he was worth, ignoring the slight burn in his shoulder and side, dulled by whatever medicine the healers had given him, as he bucked and twisted beneath their hands, desperately trying to escape. He did not know what he was fighting exactly – His friends? Their words? Or the horrible truths contained therein? – but, no matter the enemy, his confused and anguished mind bid him to fight, and so he did, spitting curses and denials at the dwarves whose faces merged into the orcs of his memory.

"Kíli!" A calloused hand came to rest on either side of his head, and the voice that spoke his name was a deep, familiar baritone above him. He hesitated, breaths heaving and catching in his lungs as he tried to focus his blurry vision, and the voice kept speaking. "That's it, lad. Deep breaths. You're alright now, you're alright. I've got you."

The pressure holding him in place slowly diminished until it was gone entirely, and he blinked away the shadows blotting out the worried face above him, sucking in great gulps of air that threatened to choke him.

"D-Dwalin?"

"I'm here, lad," Dwalin nodded, not releasing his hold on Kíli's head as he made sure the younger dwarf kept his attention on the bald dwarf and nothing else. "Just relax."

"I can't," he moaned, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the floor. His next utterance was a wail, a keening cry of loss. "Fíli..."

Dwalin shushed him, but the damage was already done. With his anger and panic stripped away the grief both had been holding at bay was given free reign, and he shook as he closed his eyes again, broken sobs wrenched from his body before he had a chance to swallow them back. Tears followed, and there was no stopping once he had begun. The rough touch of Dwalin's hands vanished, then reappeared a moment later as the warrior gently levered him into an upright position, allowing Kíli to hide his face in the shoulder of his tunic. The young dwarf didn't hesitate to do so, wrapping his one good arm around the warmaster and letting his sorrow carry him where it would.

 


	8. A Light in the Shadows

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

 

**Chapter 8**

**_ A Light in the Shadows _ **

 

Bilbo Baggins had expected many things when he ran out his front door with nary a pocket-handkerchief in his possession. Adventure, excitement, sights such as he had never seen before. He had had them all, too, in good measure, along with a dozen side dishes he hadn't been prepared for, some pleasant, but most decidedly not. The journey that had brought him here was an epic account all on its own, which was just as well, because Bilbo wasn't sure he'd ever have the stomach to recount what had happened after their goal had been reached.

Battle. War. It was often made to sound glorious in the old stories, or made light of as Gandalf had that long off day in Bag End, but the reality was much harsher. Bleak and bloody and filled with death. It seemed unaccountably cruel that they should have made it this far only to now be three short of fourteen at their journey’s end, with two of those spaces never to be filled again. It wasn't a proper ending, he thought. It wasn't the way their story should have reached its conclusion, though there was no denying that that was exactly what had happened. Not with every one of his ten companions looking so sombre, their discussions muted, and that was when they were speaking at all. Not even Bofur, indomitable spirit that he had always been, seemed capable of breaking through the gloom, and the encroaching shadow of another night could scarcely measure up to that lurking inside all their hearts.

Raising a hand, he absently ran it along the bandage wrapped around his own head, a lasting reminder that what had happened had been more than a dream, if any more proof had been needed. None of the company had escaped unscathed, and, though Kíli had suffered the worst wounds, none of the others were free of injury either. It would be weeks before Ori was allowed off his crutches, and Bilbo couldn’t help but admire Bombur’s skill in still being able to cook when his dominant hand had been crushed so thoroughly. The rest of the Company sported bruises, cuts, and scratches of their own, even Balin and Dwalin, though neither of the pair had spent much time in the healers’ domain for their own sake. Instead the two brothers seemed to have devoted every waking hour to the welfare of the youngest heir of Durin. The _only_ heir of Durin, he reminded himself miserably, a fact which Kíli had, somewhat predictably, not taken overly well.

Shock. That was the official diagnosis Oin had given when Kíli opened his eyes for the second time and then did nothing more than that. Thorin’s younger nephew hadn’t spoken a word since the previous evening, barely even acknowledging the various members of the Company who each took their turns sitting with the young prince. Bilbo himself had spent the majority of the day under the same roof as his fellow conspirator, finding even the sober mood within preferable to the sights and smells left over in the wake of the battle, and thus he’d been free to observe the various and largely ineffective means the remaining members of the Company employed to try and coax Kíli out of his shell.

Bofur came first, with a cheerful grin and mirth that was only slightly strained as he happily recounted Nori's exploits in thieving since they had been confined to the camp, the disreputable dwarf still as light fingered as ever despite sporting a broken arm. Nori himself showed Kíli some of his spoils later – mainly elvish ware, Bilbo noted – as he laughingly and shamelessly told his own tale of his deeds. Dori fussed, Bombur plied him with food, Oin added his own words of wisdom atop that of the elven healers who poked and prodded and exchanged worried glances over Kíli’s head, whilst Gloin spoke of sending word to Ered Luin that the mountain was theirs again and it was safe for their families to join them.

"Your ma will be with them," he had said, the words surely meant to comfort, but Kíli didn’t even turn his head.

Ori came in the early evening, on crutches with a badly broken leg, but wearing a determined smile and somehow managing to hold his journal in place beneath one arm. The elves had restored it to his possession, he told an unresponsive Kíli, and placed the weathered book in the young prince’s lap. Bilbo had watched with bated breath as Kíli’s gaze drifted down to the sketch laid before him, the archer visibly startling, before raising his good hand to reverently trace the lines through which the scribe had immortalized he and his brother. The spell lasted barely a minute, however, and then Kíli was turning away, his eyes clenched shut as silent tears trailed down his cheeks, the journal sliding forgotten off his legs. Ori’s face fell as he retrieved his precious collection of drawings, the youngest member of the Company turning helplessly to Bilbo.

“I thought it would help.”

Bilbo could only shake his head and mutter some meaningless placation as he ushered the scribe out of the tent, with no more answers to offer than any of the others.

In the end it was Bifur who proved the most suitable companion for the grieving prince, the oftentimes unintelligible toymaker showing himself to be more adept than any of them in the task of caring for their injured comrade. Perhaps it was because Bifur did not try to offer comfort through words, instead extending what solace he could through touch; one hand resting on Kíli’s arm whilst the other moved in gentle, paternal strokes through the archer’s hair. It was, Bilbo reflected as he looked on in silence, all the proof anyone could have needed that Bifur had once been a father, and that, even if he understood nothing else at all, the impaired dwarf understood grief.

Content that Kíli was, for the moment at least, in the care of capable hands, Bilbo took the opportunity to escape from the tent’s confines just in time to catch the last rays of the setting sun. Whether through a trick of the fading twilight or his own practiced stealth his exit from the shelter went unmarked, and thus the conversation taking place between Dain of the Iron Hills and Balin did not end when he drew within hearing distance.

“… take time,” Dain said gruffly. “But that is a commodity we do not have in plentiful supply. Winter is drawing in, and you know as well as I that we have too many wounded to move all that need moving to safe shelter elsewhere. There are debts yet to be settled, and little time in which to see the settling done. The provisions that have yet to be made...”

“ _Shall_ be made,” Balin asserted, not with force, but a certain amount of immovability. “I have spoken with Bard already, and he in turn has acted as an intermediate with King Thranduil.”

“And how long have you brought?” Dain challenged. “Do you mean to bargain with the weather as well? These are not decisions you can put off forever.”

“I am not putting them off, but they are neither yours nor mine to make,” came Balin’s level response. “That right belongs to Kíli, as you well know.”

“And if he proves unfit to make them?” Dain’s question was met with a few, brief seconds of resounding silence where Bilbo knew Balin would normally have had words ready and waiting. “Do not mistake my intent, Balin, for I am not questioning his right to rule. He is of the Line of Durin, and Thorin’s heir, that I will not argue, but he is also young and grieving.”

“So was Thorin, when the duty fell to him,” Balin remarked. “So were you.”

“And yet neither of us succumbed to grief as Kíli has.”

“It has only been a day,” Balin argued. “He’s injured. Give the lad a chance…”

‘Not a lad, Balin,” Dain cut him off. “Not anymore. If he is to rule Erebor, he cannot afford such luxuries any longer, and I cannot hold the doubters at bay forever.”

The pause this time was one of wary confusion.

“Doubters?” Balin said sharply, the words a question.

“The tale of how the Arkenstone came to rest in the hands of men and elves has become all but common knowledge,” Dain answered gravely. “There is discontent among the seven, doubt that one who would sell Erebor’s heart to its enemies is worthy of wearing a crown, and for those who may have overlooked that offence there is the sickness to concern them.”

“That is no concern at all,” the old dwarf countered swiftly. Kíli was never touched by it, not even when we all succumbed.”

“So you say.” Dain remained neutral on the subject. “But Thorin remained free of that curse at first as well. There is no guarantee Kíli will not follow in the footsteps of his predecessors with age and time enough to do so.”

Bilbo didn’t need to be able to see the pair to know that Balin was shaking his head. “There is no guarantee for any of us.”

“With that I would agree,” said Dain. "But it is not me you must convince, Balin. Kíli is neither Thorin’s son nor his chosen heir, and, whilst his bloodline grants him an undeniable right to claim the throne, he is not the only one with such a right. The trust that once existed in Thror’s line has dwindled, many do not wish to see a direct descendant of his line rule in Erebor. The envoys of the seven are calling for a council, and it may well be that they will do their utmost to see to it Kíli does not ascend to the throne.”

“So you will stand against him?” Balin’s voice held a measure of coldness Bilbo had not heard before from the old dwarf. “After all that has already been taken from the lad, you would claim more?”

“I would stand for that very reason,” Dain sighed. “Think ill of me if you will, Balin, but I have stood where Kíli stands now, and it is not something I would wish upon anyone. If nothing else, he deserves the right to be given a choice, and perhaps you should consider whether or not he even _wants_ to rule before you foist that duty upon him.”

The Lord of the Iron Hills did not wait for Balin’s response, his heavy footsteps moving away from where the oldest member of the Company remained standing, and Bilbo hastened to scurry off himself before he was caught doing what a Baggins should never be caught doing. The words the pair had exchanged lingered on his mind for some time afterwards, until at last he resolved to share his troubled thoughts with someone who may be able to set his worries at ease.

“Gandalf,” he said to himself. “I must find Gandalf.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

He woke, and he _knew_.

There was no moment of unawareness. No blissful second where he reached for his brother expecting Fíli to be there before cold, hard reality set in. No brief minute when he mistook the footsteps outside for his uncle’s heavy tread. There was just the _knowing_ , the terrible news that came flooding back the moment his mind started towards wakefulness and left him lying on his back with his eyes clenched tightly shut in a vain attempt to shut out the painful truth.

_'You know nothing of the world'_ Thorin had told him, but even then he had not understood what those words meant. He had seen danger and even death before the quest to Erebor, but he had also known with unerring certainty that Fíli and Thorin would be there to aid him to his feet should he ever stumble, and guard him when he was vulnerable, as they had always done. Except now both brother and uncle were robbed from him, and he realized at last what a cold, harsh world was his own. He knew nothing of the world no longer, for he knew now it was cruel.

How did one pick up the pieces of a life that had always consisted of two? How was he to reconcile himself to losing both brother and uncle a second time within but a few days, this time in a way final and complete? No betrayal could bring them back this time, though he would have withstood Thorin’s scathing condemnation a thousand times over if it would have just set things right. Because this was wrong. It _had_ to be wrong. The alternative was unthinkable and heart-breaking and _destroying_. How had he ever imagined he had lost everything when Thorin cast him out of Erebor? By comparison, what had been taken from him then were just trifles, and having them back now – having, as Dwalin and Balin had claimed, Thorin’s forgiveness – meant nothing if the lives of his kin were the price to pay.

He was aware of his companions moving around him as the day wore on, worried voices drifting back and forth across him, some words directed at him, some about him, and some their own conversation entirely, but he couldn’t muster the will to offer any of them a response. None of them were the faces he wanted to see, the voices he wanted to hear, and it was easier to withdraw from them all than acknowledge the fact those that were absent would never return. He made the mistake of glancing down at the sketch that Ori laid in his lap, and the fresh wave of pain that sight invoked was more than enough to justify his retreating again, closing his eyes and determinedly cutting the world off completely.

Sleep claimed him for a time, shallow and restless, never becoming a slumber deep enough for dreams. Never allowing him a chance to remember, or to forget. He startled awake to candlelight, and a conversation that had started without him.

"Dain's pushing," Balin’s voice floated overhead and he blinked slowly, aware of Bifur’s hand moving back and forth across the top of his head in gentle strokes. The wounded dwarf had once been a father, he was reminded, and, though he was of an age now that such comfort should not be needed, he found the gesture calming regardless. "He says there is unrest in the camps. The ambassadors of the seven kingdoms are raising a fuss. Many are saying if the Prince of Erebor is awake he should be down there with them."

"Barely awake," Dwalin growled from somewhere off to his right, and Kíli blinked again, watching the mottled patterns of candlelight on the ceiling. "I'd like to see Dain on his feet so soon after such injuries."

"You may not like what he has to say or the dwarf himself," Balin replied. "But there is truth to his words. Dain is down among his people every day, making provisions for the wounded, organizing fit burials for the dead. He has even begun work within Erebor in preparation for those who will need to shelter there through the winter. He claims to be acting in Kíli's stead, but the more duties he sees to and the more decisions he makes on Erebor's behalf the stronger his position to claim the throne will be."

"Let him try," Dwalin said darkly. "He wouldn't dare face the dragon, and, had the enemy not come upon us so unexpectedly, I have no doubt he would have left us to the mercy of the goblins and wargs too. A coward is no fit king."

"It isn't cowardly to want to keep your people safe," Balin's correction was reasonable and level-headed as always. "Facing Smaug in battle could have been the end of Dain's army, and could easily have brought the wrath of the dragon down upon the Iron Hills. He came when Thorin called, and he fought beside us when it counted. Do not forget that Dain was present at Moria, where his father died. He had more than enough reason to be wary of another mad scheme concocted by Thror's line."

Dwalin snorted, but did not rebuke Balin's words, and the eldest of the Company moved to Kíli's bedside.

“Are you awake, lad?” he asked gently, one hand moving to rest on Kíli’s shoulder. Kíli drew in a shuddering breath, but did not respond, lying immobile with absolutely no desire to change his current position. Balin gave him a few moments, clearly awaiting a response, then let out a sigh and withdrew his hand. The purpose of this was, he realized a moment later, to allow the old dwarf to retrieve the chair that had been set just out of his peripheral sight, but he paid the act no more mind than it took to realize that much, diverting his attention to the fabric forming the ceiling of his small sanctuary.

“It was not Azog,” Balin said, and Kíli absently wondered if that was supposed to make him feel grateful. If the fact his closest kin had _not_ been slain by the beast that had stolen so many of Durin’s line from the living world should have eased the ache now settled into his very being. “You bought Thorin the moment he needed, and he and Fíli made that monster pay dearly for his crimes. His body was burnt alongside that of the other enemy fallen, a more fitting end than he deserved.”

He paused, allowing Kíli the chance to interrupt, but the youngest heir of Durin did not even turn his head. Doing so would have meant acknowledging that Balin was there, and his brother _wasn’t_.

“We thought you lost at first,” the old dwarf beside him confessed. “Lying still as death upon the battlefield. It was a miracle to find you still breathing.”

Kíli bitterly thought it was a miracle he could have done without. He could almost imagine Fíli chiding him for even entertaining such an idea for a second, but that was all it was, his imagination. Fíli would never chide him again, nor would Thorin. He was alone and lost and in pain, and he did not know what he was meant to do next.

“Azog’s fall gained us a moment to breathe,” Balin continued, despite his unresponsive audience. “The enemy scattered, momentarily leaderless, and our forces were able to drive them back enough to allow the wounded to be retrieved from amongst the fallen. Thorin used that time to have you carried to safety, before the enemy regrouped under a new captain. Fíli wanted to go with you, but we needed every able-bodied warrior on the field. We were outnumbered, the odds stacked against us, and death was almost certain for us all. They charged us and we were separated, all of us suddenly surrounded by strangers, but I could see Thorin and Fíli still together, standing back to back, as a wave of enemies came crashing down upon them with Bolg at their head.” The storyteller paused again, to draw breath this time, but only for a moment. “It was the eagles that saved us. Them and Beorn, storming into the fray in the final hour. They crashed through our enemy, trapping them between our two forces, and only those who were fortunate enough to flee escaped their due recompense. Without the aid of Beorn and the eagles, however, none of us would have lived to tell the tale, no matter how wretched a tale it has proven to be.”

Wretched indeed, Kíli thought, closing his eyes. It had not brought him peace, hearing how they had died, as Balin had no doubt hoped, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his grief. He heard Balin sigh, then the old dwarf reached across him, taking a hold of his unbound hand and pressing something cool and familiar into his palm. He startled, the touch of the metal against his skin sending a shock rippling up his good arm, and his fingers tightened of their own accord, the achingly familiar shape of the metal digging sharply into his skin. As four pairs of eyes watched with bated breath he raised his hand slowly, staring at the clasp clutched in his fingers, before letting his gaze shift to Balin's own.

"Can I see them?" His voice came out a shaky whisper despite his best efforts. It was not a request he had thought to make before, but now, with the cool metal sitting in his hand, he found himself gripped by the need to _see_ his brother, dead or alive. Fíli deserved a proper farewell, and it would be nothing short of cowardice to not fulfil his duties on that count.

"No, lad," Balin answered hesitantly. "There were no bodies. Only the clasp. We thought you might like to have... well, something."

Balin’s words echoed inside his head as his confusion mounted, a strange feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as his mind poked and prodded at this new piece of information. There had only been the clasp, but no remains. Kíli frowned, closing his fist until the pressure became painful, the sharp edges of the metal grounding him as nothing else had been able to since he first heard the terrible news. They had not found Fíli. They had not found Thorin.

Hope almost choked him.

"There were no bodies?" he repeated aloud, staring up at Balin desperately.

"They had wargs, lad," the old dwarf reminded him gently. "A pack of them, born and bred to maim and kill. There's not always a body to find."

He knew what Balin was trying to say without actually uttering the words, had in fact seen what the old dwarf spoke of on the battlefield, fangs dripping blood and a life quite literally torn to shreds. But this was Thorin, this was _Fíli_ , his brother, and if there was even the slightest chance… His stomach twisted again as he pushed himself into a sitting position, staring at the clasp in his hand, his mind swinging back and forth between hope and dread.

“How do you _know_?” he asked. “How do you know they’re gone? They could have been taken or…”

“Kíli, lad.” Balin laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly to halt his flow of words. “Those that fled did so with many hunters on their tails. They would not have had the time or the opportunity to carry prisoners with them. Thorin and Fíli… they are not the only ones to be counted amongst the… the missing. I am sorry, but they are gone, and that is something you are going to have to accept.”

But Kíli did not want to. Not if there was a choice. Not if this could all be a nightmare, untrue the moment he proved it was otherwise.

“Where’s Gandalf?” he demanded, already pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “I need to speak with him.”

“What you need is more rest,” Balin replied sternly, pushing him down with he tried to rise. “Time to think on what has happened. There are… other matters that need to be spoken of, and for that you need a clear mind.”

Kíli paused to stare at him, confused and bewildered, for what could be more important than this? “What other matters?”

Balin shook his head, both hands now resting on Kíli’s shoulders, his face troubled. “You are not ready to hear this.”

Unease coiled in his stomach, deep and foreboding. “Hear what?”

Balin still hesitated, and Kíli’s gaze darted about the others present. Bilbo was determinedly averting his eyes, and even Dwalin, stoic in the face of any danger, chose to stare at his own boots rather than to answer. Bifur returned his gaze steadily, but offered no words, and it was to Balin that Kíli turned again at last.

“Mister Balin?”

“Erebor is ours,” the Company’s eldest said slowly. “We have our kingdom once more.” He paused, and Kíli’s heart was a drumbeat in his chest, his mind grasping the words to come before they were even uttered. "A kingdom that requires a king.”

 


	9. The Hope of the Hopeless

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

 

**Chapter 9**

**_ The Hope of the Hopeless _ **

 

Peace and plenty. That was how Balin had described the lives of the exiled dwarves in Ered Luin. Peace and plenty, a wealth founded not on gold but iron and other metals, more than enough to provide for a people, even if it was not the wealth and splendour they knew. But Ered Luin had had its own treasure, unseen, intangible, but just as precious and jealously guarded as all the gold in Erebor. Because Ered Luin had been safe. A place where people could live without concern for their wellbeing, and where children could be raised as children, not the warriors circumstances had so often made their parents. It was there, in a sanctuary hard-won but worth every ounce of sacrifice that had gone into its making, that two princes had been raised by their mother and uncle to know of the outside world and a kingdom lost without experiencing any of the hardship that went with the tales their elders told. Truth be told, the youngest members of the Company were older than he himself had been when calamity struck, and the youth they displayed was not a sign of years not yet lived, but rather the carefree existence their uncle had made certain was theirs. Thorin had lived through enough tragedies to be justified in his desire to spare his sister-sons the same grief and, though he had made sure they knew danger lurked beyond their borders and how to defend themselves against it, he had kept intact something the older generation had lost far too young.

It was a terrible thing, then, to see the last of young Kíli's innocence depart from wide, dark eyes set in a suddenly, hauntingly pale face. He had not wanted to press the issue so soon, not when Kíli had taken the deaths so hard, but with the lad's mind grasping at impossible miracles he hadn't had a choice. Balin knew better by now than to believe in miracles, and Erebor did not need a child-prince chasing a dream that could never be real, it needed a king. And so he spoke sooner than he ought, and silently apologized to his fallen friend for crushing the last vestiges of what Thorin had, in his own way, ardently protected for years.

"No," Kíli said at last, his voice a wavering thing. "No, I can't be..."

"You are," Balin asserted, watching the weight of his words crush the lad more than grief already had. "Thorin's heir. Erebor's prince."

The look the young dwarf set upon him now was trapped and panicked, what colour he had regained through recovery now lost in fear.

"I am not a King!" his protest was shrill, driven by terror, and Balin closed his eyes as he hardened his resolve, knowing that, painful though it may be, this needed to be done. "Please," Kíli begged, breaking through his thoughts. "I cannot do it, Balin, please."

He opened his mouth even as his mind searched for the words that had always been his weapon to wield. Words of wisdom and comfort and restraint. He could find none this day, however, and Dwalin stepped forward before he could make another sound.

"It is late," the warmaster stated. "And we are all tired. This is a conversation that would be better left till morning light, I think."

The relief that shone forth on Kíli's face was palpable, and Balin relented, more eager to abandon this fight than he probably should have been. But Kíli was not the only one to be weary and grieving. Balin had lost both his king and his friend, as well as a young dwarf he had played his own part in raising. It was a blessing unlooked for to have Kíli still, for some small remnant of the line he had served loyally for the entirety of his life to yet draw breath, and Balin hesitated to thrust this burden on those young shoulders. Dain was right in that Kíli would not be the youngest to accept such a charge, but he feared that forcing the prince to do so now may very well be the final straw.

Above all else, he did not want to see Thorin’s nephew broken.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The overlook upon which he had stood and watched their enemy amass was further from the camp than Kíli remembered, though he was wise enough to realize it was perhaps not the distance that had changed, but his own ability to traverse it. His legs were shaking by the time he dropped onto the hard packed soil that formed the lower slopes of Ravenhill, his shoulder pulsing with a dull throb despite the care he had taken not to aggravate it as he climbed. Oin had taken the first opportunity available to him to give Kíli the sternest lecture he had ever heard from the old dwarf on not straining his tightly bound limb, his dire warning of ‘you may never use it again’ more than enough to make sure his words were heeded. Climbing one handed was difficult, however, and had made his ill-advised journey all that much harder. He had to take a few moments simply to regain his breath and let his head stop spinning once he reached the summit, and only then could he gaze upon the sight that had drawn him this far from the camp, the lure he had followed without thought for the difficulty in reaching his goal.

But he had needed to see the battlefield. The place where others claimed his family had died. It looked different now, of course, the corpses of the enemy piled high in smoking pyres that sent lazy swirls of smoke drifting into the still, afternoon air, whilst those of their own who had fallen had been carried away for a more fitting burial. But not his brother. Not Fíli or Thorin, who Balin claimed to have seen overwhelmed by the enemy, but whom the old dwarf had not seen die. The burial rites to be held for both the uncrowned King and the similarly titled Prince of Erebor on the morrow were but a show, an act, for there was nothing to bury, no bodies to lay to rest, no proof that death had indeed taken them. Perhaps it was foolish to cling to hope when no one else saw reason for the same, but Kíli would sooner be called a fool than the last of his house.

He knew the tales, after all. Stories of prisoners carried away during battle, dragged to deeps not dug by their kin, for sport, for revenge, for whatever fancy took their foul captors. Most were never heard of again, some displayed as trophies once their jailors had finished with them, others returned to their people years later, minds broken irrevocably, so that to end their lives was a kindness. It was not a fate he would have wished on his brother and uncle under any other circumstances, but, when the alternative was the permanence of death, he clung to the thin strand of hope that was that possibility.

Prisoners could be rescued.

The dead were beyond reach.

“I have a feeling you are not meant to be here.” Kíli flinched, gaze jerking away from the clasp in his hand to espy the speaker. The elven prince, standing a little way down the ridge, offered him a wry smile, stepping forward with the lightness of his race as he added, “But the healer will never know if I do not tell him.”

“He’ll find out,“ the answer came automatically to his lips, even if it sounded subdued to his own ears. “He always does.”

Legolas Greenleaf made a soft sound of agreement, halting when he drew level to the seated prince, his gaze straying across the battlefield that had brought Kíli to the heights in the first place. “This is not a sight to lighten heavy hearts,” he observed thoughtfully. “Though, perhaps the sight makes little difference to the weight you bear. I am sorry that it did not end better for you.”

Thorin would not have believed it, Kíli thought with amusement that mingled too heavily with grief, but he was almost certain the elven prince was sincere in his words.

“It is not ended, yet,” he replied dully, his eyes drifting back to the precious silver in his hands. “They wish to make me king."

And wasn’t that an odd thought? Him, _king_? The very idea was ludicrous. Ludicrous and altogether daunting, so that it had lingered on his mind all through the night and most of the morning as well. He could not escape it, nor could he ignore the sudden weight of the realization that his royal blood made Thorin and Fíli’s deaths an event far more significant than the pain they caused him and all those who had known and loved the pair. _He_ was now the heir of Erebor, the last prince of Thror’s line, and he could almost feel his new duties piling up around him like stone walls; cold, heavy, and immovable.

“I had heard as much,” Legolas answered, interrupting his reverie. Kíli cast him a curious glance, wondering how news of Erebor’s hierarchy had travelled to the elven camp, and, seeing this, the elven prince added, "Dain Ironfoot has been delaying any settlement with my father until such a time as you were able to be a part of the treating.”

“I do not know why.” Kíli frowned. “I am sure I do not know the first thing about settling such matters.”

“Perhaps.” Legolas shrugged. “But you have the King’s respect, and that is more commodity than any other shall bring to the table. Or perhaps my father simply thinks you will be freer with what rewards you grant than the Lord of the Iron Hills.”

Kíli did not dignify that observation with a response, deliberately turning his mind away from thrones, crowns, and the burdens that came with both. His eyes drifted with his thoughts, his gaze passing across the cleared away carnage below, frowning as he spotted several elven riders approaching the camp at a canter, their destination clearly the lodgings of their king. Legolas saw them also, and spoke an answer before Kíli could give voice to a question.

“News at last,” the elven prince stated. “Though there are only three, so the deed cannot yet be done.”

Kíli frowned, as confused as he was curious. “What deed?”

“Bolg,” the elf spoke the name with all the vitriol it deserved. “The coward fled the battle before he could meet such an end as his foul begetter. The King sent riders in pursuit, but they were over late in following, and it may be that the orc captain had too much of an advantage for them to catch him. No doubt he will skulk back into hiding, as is the way of his kind.”

“Bolg survived?” Kíli stilled, his grasp upon Fíli’s hair clasp so tight it was painful, his gaze seeking and holding the elf’s own.

“Despite our best efforts to ensure otherwise, yes.”

The elven prince’s tone was one of regret and deep dissatisfaction, but Kíli’s agile mind was already connecting dots, stringing faint hope to impossible fortune and praying for a miracle. Azog had not been named the Defiler without purpose, but if he had earned the name then his son had been worthy of a title just as horrific. When orcs called one of their own a torture-master you could be certain they were nothing less than that, and it had been Bolg’s name carved upon the bodies of the prisoners returned in the wake of the battle at Moria’s gates, a brutal vengeance for what many had believed was Azog’s demise. That was a side of the story rarely told, a tale even Balin was reluctant to recall, and Kíli had heard it only once as a lesson to be engraved upon his heart and never forgotten. But Azog’s death had been real this time, his carcass lying with those burning below, and what better retribution for his son could there be then unleashing his foul talent upon the ones who had slain Azog in battle?

_Torture_. The thought made his hand tremble with fear as much as it did with hope, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he surged to his feet. He needed to find Balin now. He needed to tell him the truth. He needed…

The world spun, and he would have fallen had Legolas not seized a hold of his elbow.

“Easy,” the elf chided, lowering him back to the ground as he gasped shallowly for breath. “You are not well enough to be moving so swiftly.”

“I need to talk to Balin.” Time was of the essence. If the elven riders had not caught up with Bolg and what remained of his followers then they were already too far behind for comfort. “I need…”

“Rest,” Legolas interjected firmly. “That is clear to see. I think it is time you were returned to the healer’s charge, Prince Kíli.”

“No!” The force of his rejection surprised even himself. “Not yet. Please. It’s important.”

The elf’s expression was dubious, but to Kíli’s great relief he did not argue, graciously acting as a much-needed support as he aided Kíli back down the ridge and through the camp to the quarters he had so shamelessly abandoned.  He was not entirely surprised to find a small party of fairly worried dwarves waiting for him, and he did not miss the slight nod of thanks Balin offered the elven prince as the pair traded custody of their wayward charge. It wasn’t worth taking offense at the action, however, not when he had such significant news to impart, but before he could even catch his breath Balin was speaking.

“Whatever were you thinking, lad?” he scolded, ushering Kíli past the various members of the Company and back into the shelter he had vacated some hours before. “You’ve exhausted yourself. You’ll be lucky if you’re well enough to walk tomorrow, let alone attend the burial…”

He had almost forgotten the mockery of a funeral rite and the expectation that had been laid upon him to attend it, but that hardly mattered now.  

“I’m not going,” he blurted, and Balin came to a sudden standstill halfway between Kíli’s berth and the door, Dwalin’s stare searing into his back from behind even as the elder brother’s gaze searched his face. Determined, he did not flinch from Balin’s stare, speaking again in the strongest tone he could muster, “They’re not dead.”

Balin’s face fell, and Kíli honestly could not read the emotion that lingered in his expression as he said, “Kíli, lad, I know it is not easy to accept…”

“No.” He snared his fingers in the old dwarf’s sleeve, pressing his point for all he was worth. “No, just _listen_. Thorin and Fíli slew Azog, you said they did, but Bolg is still alive. He attacked them. That was the last time you saw them, when he fell upon them, and he is alive. He could have taken them, Balin, he could have…”

But Balin was shaking his head, his words resigned and heavy. “I’ve already spoken to the elven scouts,” he said. “They saw no sign of prisoners.”

“That doesn’t mean…”

“ _Enough_ , Kíli.”

The force in that single world silenced him, and he whirled to stare at Dwalin in shock, reminded for the first time that this loss was not his alone. Both Balin and Dwalin had known Thorin for longer than Kíli had been alive, and they had had as much a part as Kíli’s uncle in raising Fíli and himself. Though they did not show it as much as he they must surely be grieving too, but if that were so then he could not understand why they would not grasp onto hope as he had. It was a frail hope, to be certain, waxing and waning with every hour that passed, but that did not mean it did not exist at all.

“Why won’t you believe me?” he said at last into the silence, letting his hurt colour his words.

“Because there is nothing to believe,” Balin murmured resignedly. “We say our farewells on the morrow, lad, do not make it any harder than it already is.”

Kíli faltered, his eyes darting back and forth between the pair, seeing none of what he wished to in their faces. They had already accepted what he would not, could not, and without substantial proof, proof he could not give them, they would not change their minds. He could feel his hope dwindling, slipping through his fingers, but he refused to surrender it entirely.

“I am not going,” he repeated firmly, and meant it, despite the almost shocked look that swept across Balin’s face. “I _will_ not.”

“You are overwrought,” Balin began, tugging him the rest of the way to the bed and pushing him down upon it. Kíli allowed him to do so, but remained unmoving in his resolve. “You need sleep. It will…”

He knew what Balin meant to say, but forestalled the thought. “I will not change my mind.”

“You are their closest living kin,” Balin tried another tactic. “It would be dishonourable for you not to attend.”

“It is even more dishonourable to give them up for dead,” he fired back, angry now.

“We are not giving them up, lad,” Balin objected.

“Yes, you are!” It was an accusation, and he was fairly certain those outside could hear it just as clearly as its intended recipients. “You will not even give them a chance!”

“There is no chance, Kíli,” the Company’s eldest insisted forcefully. “I saw them fall.”

He didn’t care. They wouldn’t listen, and his next words were a shout, “Fallen is not _dead_!”

“What on earth is going on in here?”

Gandalf’s interruption was one of baffled incredulity, the wizard’s tall frame darkening the entrance to the tent, Bilbo standing just slightly behind him, eyes wide. Silence reigned in the wake of his question, none answering him, though his eyes bore into each of them in turn. At length, when the quiet had lasted for too long, the wizard took a step forward.

“Perhaps it is time for a change of company, hm?” he suggested amicably in a way that told all three dwarves it wasn’t really a suggestion. “I am sure you have a great many things that require your attention, Balin, Dwalin. Bilbo and I shall sit with Kíli for a while. I am sure that, between us, we shall manage to keep him out of trouble.”

Unlike Thorin, Balin knew better than to argue with a wizard, the old dwarf leaving without a word of complaint, and taking the slightly less willing Dwalin with him. Once they were gone Gandalf drew up a seat alongside the bed, pulling out his pipe and lighting it before letting his gaze fall upon Kíli.

“Now then, young prince,” he said with more cheer than Kíli had heard since awakening. “What is it that puts you and Balin at such odds this fine evening?”

But Kíli had learnt his lesson, and with shoulders bowed in sullen defeat he responded with a mumbled, “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it is not,” Gandalf answered him. “What with all the shouting that was going on, one would think the dragon had returned to restake his claim.”

He cast only a fleeting glance the wizard’s way, then returned his gaze to his lap. “You would not believe me either.”

“Oh, come now, it is most unfair of you to judge an old wizard without even giving him a chance to make his own pronouncements,” Gandalf rebuked him mildly. “You do not know what I might believe.”

That was true, Kíli reflected. Whilst telling Gandalf the same tale he had tried to share with Balin might earn him nothing more than the wizard’s ridicule, it might also grant him a way by which to find and save his kin. It was a risk worth taking, and, drawing in a deep breath, Kíli slowly and earnestly shared his thoughts with both the wizard and the hobbit. Neither uttered a sound during his stammered explanation, Bilbo’s face scrunched into a thoughtful frown, whilst Gandalf’s remained unreadable, the wizard puffing steadily on his pipe all the while. A restless quiet fell when the last of his uttered words had faded, and Kíli shifted uneasily, awaiting the harsh verdict he felt sure was to come.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo prompted at last, his voice a tangle of conflicting emotions. “What do you think?”

As always, the wizard took his time in making his response, a half a dozen smoke rings filling the air before he removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke.

“Bolg was the jailor of Dol Guldur,” he said gravely. “Given what we know now of the power that dwelt there, I can only imagine what terrible deeds he inflicted on those creatures unfortunate enough to fall under his care, or what dark practices he learnt beneath his master’s hand.” He paused, staring into the distance, and Kíli waited, tense and braced for the worst. “It is not an impossibility, nothing is, but I do not know if it is a better alternative than what others have chosen to believe. If they were taken, they have been in Bolg’s care for days, and his treatment will not have been kind.”

It was not an entirely encouraging response. In fact, it was more disheartening than anything else, but still…”But they may have survived,” he persisted.

“If they have then I fear your hardships are not yet at an end,” Gandalf concluded with empathy. “The fight to bring them back will not be an easy one, and it may well be that the first battle you have to fight is here, against your own companions.”

 


	10. The Duties of a Crownless King

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 10**

**_ The Duties of a Crownless King _ **

 

Kíli awoke that night with his brother's name on his lips and tears streaming down his face. The blanket covering him was a tangled mess, he was drenched with sweat, and his shoulder was pounding away to a rhythm of its very own. None of these things registered as more than a passing thought, however, his mind still wracked with the terrible images that had stalked his sleep with cruel persistence until his own screams woke him. He couldn't breathe properly, an invisible weight on his chest, so that the cries he could not bite back cut themselves short for want of air. He was reduced instead to a keening wail, to tears he could not stop as the loss hit him anew, and in the dark watches of the night his frail candle of misplaced faith could not stay alight.

"Kíli?" Someone else had entered the tent, someone he could not see, for his face was firmly buried in his knees as he rocked back and forth, utterly distraught. "Kíli!"

The voice became a demand, and then there were hands upon him, tugging and pulling until he was no longer hunched over himself, his face buried instead in a shoulder that smelt of worn leather and fur as a pair of strong arms held him firmly in place. He did not return the gesture, simply collapsing against the newcomer, his cries half-muffled by the cloth against which his face was pressed.

He did not know how long he lay there, gripped by hysterics, but eventually mind and body both ceased their grieving, and he was left lying limply against his stoic companion, throat aching, cheeks damp, and chest still heaving as he fought to regain his breath.

"You alright now, lad?"

It was Dwalin, he realized. Dwalin holding him together as he threatened to shatter, providing an anchor in the storm.

"I-I'm f-fine," he stammered out an answer, breath still hitching in his chest. "It was just..." He closed his eyes, clenched them shut, and wished the image conjured by his imagination would disintegrate. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."

A dream that had been no less terrifying for the fact it was a dream. Vivid and savage and _petrifying_. Full of battle and death and Azog's great mace crashing down upon him as Thorin looked on and shook his head. A dream where he ran with all the speed he could muster, but still could not cross the distance as Bolg's warg pack tore his family to shreds and his brother screamed his name as his arrows fell short of their mark. As the tale of death Balin believed turned to reality, and his life was destroyed with the complete decimation of two others. The very thought of what he had witnessed in his slumber was nausea inducing, and he shivered, jumping slightly when Dwalin's callused palm landed on his brow.

"You've taken to fever again," the bald dwarf rumbled in discontent, his next words not directed at Kíli at all. "What in Durin’s name is taking Oin so long?"

“Oin is right here,” the healer responded sharply as he bustled into the tent, looking harried and tired and casting Dwalin a wholly disapproving glare that vanished as his eyes honed in on Kíli.

"Now then," he grumbled, seizing the young dwarf’s chin in his hand and turning his head hither and thither. "What have you done to yourself?"

He didn't give Kíli a chance to respond, muttering to himself as he unwrapped bandages and poked and prodded at areas that were far too damaged to appreciate such treatment. Kíli endured his ministrations in silence, still half-leaning on Dwalin, fighting the persistent tug of sleep that was threatening to haul him back down into the gruesome world of nightmares his slumber had become. At length Oin stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction, every dressing back in place, and every injury aching that much more for having been disturbed.

"There's no sign of infection," he spoke over Kíli's head, addressing Dwalin. "It's simply a matter of too much, too fast. Rest is all he needs. _Proper_ rest," he added sternly, his eyes now fixed on Kíli. "I'll mix up some tea before I go to help you sleep."

“No!” Kíli jerked upright in a second, fear and panic clouding his voice, "I don't want to sleep. Please, Oin, I’ll be fine. I _don’t want to sleep_."

“You and almost everyone else in this whole camp but me,” the old healer grumbled, removing a vial from his satchel. “But you needn’t worry.” Adding a few drops of the contents to a mug of warm tea, he turned and offered it to his ward. Kíli didn’t even bother raising his hand to take it, and with a frown Oin pressed it upon him. “This is an elvish brew,” he assured the archer. “You won’t dream.”

Accepting the tea Kíli eyed it distrustfully, his hand still shaky enough he could see ripples on the drink’s surface. Seeing this Oin spoke again, "That's a tried and tested remedy, lad, have a little faith."

It wasn't assurance enough for the young dwarf, not after what he had seen, and he made to place the tea down without touching a drop only to have Dwalin's hand close around his own and push the mug back towards him.

"Drink, Kíli," he ordered. "You need your rest. I'll be here."

But what good would even Dwalin be fighting against night terrors? This was no tangible enemy he could drive away, no monster of shadows that could be cut down by ax and sword. This was Kíli's own mind, and the terrible array of possibilities that still remained possibilities until he could prove otherwise.

"Gandalf believes me," he blurted, earning the full attention of both Dwalin and Oin, though it was only to the former he turned. "Why won't you?"

Dwalin's face was a closed book, and Kíli feared he had made the warmaster angry again until Dwalin reached across to take the tea from his hand and set it to one side.

“I have seen the damage false hope can do,” he said at last. “I do not know what cause the wizard has for encouraging you, but I prefer not to entertain folly when I see it.”

Using his good arm to push himself away from Dwalin Kíli balanced himself against the pillows instead so he could look the older dwarf in the eye. “How do you know it is a false hope?”

Dwalin turned away from Kíli’s earnest gaze, his voice heavy as he answered with more words than he was apt to speak in a day, let alone a single conversation. "At Azanulbizar many prisoners were taken before the tide was turned, dragged within our own halls as slaves and sport. Frerin, Thorin's brother and your uncle, was counted amongst the missing. We held out hope for days that those who were taken would find a way to escape. Moria is a dwarf realm, after all. They knew those tunnels better than any Orc." The warrior paused, his gaze now fixed to Kíli's own stare. "You know how that story ends, lad. The mutilated bodies that were returned to us, signed like some light forsaken craftsman's work. Frerin was recognizable only by the clasp they left upon his body, proof Azog's oath still stood, another of Durin's line dead at the hands of his ilk. Thorin... Well, Thorin had chosen to believe as you do. That there was still a hope, no matter how slim, that Frerin might be returned to us alive. I have never seen your uncle so close to breaking as he was in that moment when we found the bodies." 

With a shake of his head, Dwalin ended his tale with the most devastating words he could have possibly chosen. 

"There is no hope, lad, not even if they were taken alive. Better to think of them as dead upon the battlefield than dead at the hands of that dreadful beast."

Retrieving the mug of tea he seized Kíli’s hand and wrapped the archer’s numb fingers about the handle, deliberately not looking the young dwarf in the eye.

“Drink,” he ordered, and this time Kíli did exactly as he was told.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Dwalin had meant his shared recollections to act as a lesson, Kíli knew. A cautionary tale to show him the dangers wrought by believing in possibilities where no others saw even the slimmest chance. He knew what Dwalin had been trying to make sure he understood, but it didn't matter, because Kíli did not believe Thorin and Fíli were dead, and no one could make him believe otherwise. Dwalin was there the next morning, along with most of the rest of the company, coaxing, cajoling, and outright threatening, but Kíli was a dwarf of his word, and he absolutely refused to have any part in the act of burying family he did not believe to be dead. If Dwalin turned away and Balin stared at him in stark disapproval whilst the rest of the company shook their heads in sorrow over his inability to accept the truth then so be it. It was not the first time he had earned the ire of them all. If he carried on as he was, it would probably not be the last.

He waited in the tent allotted to him for most of the morning, counting the minutes and trying to judge how long the funeral rites might take. The hour was nearing noon when he finally slipped from the shelter, picking a winding path through the camp until he came to the stream he and Bilbo had followed whilst carrying out their ultimately fruitless betrayal. The entrance to the mountain had been opened since then, rubble cleared away, and the path beneath his feet was blessedly smooth as he slipped through the unguarded entrance into the great hall below. He was almost caught there in the flood of returning mourners and those who could not care less but thought it wise to pay their respects regardless, but managed to duck into an alcove before any eyes fell upon him. He waited in the shadows until all had passed, then followed the paths they had walked deeper into the mountain. Balin had told him there was still an incredible amount of work left to do before Erebor was restored to a state capable of supporting those of its people who would be spending the winter inside the mountain, but the paths to the burial chambers showed no evidence of this, readied as they had been to receive their King and Prince.

The tombs were not difficult to find, set centrefold in the large room, each bearing their own inscription, a life reduced to a few sentences carved on cold stone. He hesitated in the entranceway, second-guessing his desire to be here, but at length his feet moved of their own accord, and he strode across the empty space, every footstep echoing in the darkness. He paused briefly alongside his brother’s tomb, fingers tracing a name he had pronounced almost every day of his life, then tore himself away, taking the four steps that brought him to the side of his uncle’s empty grave.

“Thorin.”

The name felt heavy on his tongue, the echoes of his own voice an eerie whisper around him, and he paused uncertainly, trapped between the desire to speak and the knowledge there would be no answer. The words needed to be said, however, and if he could not say them here then he would never utter them aloud.

“Balin said you forgave me,” he continued, staring not at the tomb before him, but rather into the darkness that lay beyond. “I almost wish you had not.”

Had he still been disgraced, cut off from his house and banished from this home and all others he would have had no reason to stay. He could have seized that solitary strand of chance and pursued it to its death or his. But Thorin _had_ forgiven him, perhaps for no more reason than guilt over the fact Kíli had tread perilously close to death defending his life, and now he was chained here, trapped by the same bonds he had been so horrified to lose.

“Nobody else will believe me.” He hesitated, thinking that statement over. “Well, Gandalf does, but none of the others will believe _him_. Not unless he says for certain you are still alive, and he won’t do that. Can’t, I suppose.”

It was cold down here in the deeps, and he shivered slightly, wishing he had been left a coat. Apparently his adventure the day before had lent wisdom to his wardens, however, and the layers of clothes he had been offered that morning were wholly conditional on his presence at the burial. As soon as they were assured he was not coming, anything that might have provided warmth in the encroaching winter air had been withdrawn.

“I don’t know what to do.” That much was obvious, he thought. He was asking for answers from the dead who were not dead, but the living had already refused him that much, so what choice did he have? “I just need proof. A sign. _Anything_ …”

“You will not find any of those things down here, I fear.”

Kíli whirled at the interjection, wondering how he had missed the glow of torchlight behind him even as he met the stern gaze of the grey-bearded dwarf holding the flambeau aloft. Recognition took him a few moments, for this was a dwarf who had rarely graced Ered Luin with his presence, but it came at length.

“Lord Dain.” He did not know what else to say, but it appeared the name and title were sufficient, for his distant cousin was already striding forward.

“If you wish to kill yourself there are easier ways than freezing to death,” the Lord of the Iron Hills chided, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around Kíli’s instead. “Come, leave the dead to their silence. This is not a place for the living to linger.”

Reluctantly, Kíli allowed himself to be tugged away, Dain leading him out of the burial chambers and back through the maze of corridors. Instead of making for the main gate, however, the Lord of the Iron Hills chose to mount one of the side staircases, bringing them both out to stand upon the very same wall where Thorin had first denounced his youngest nephew. The memory was still fresh in Kíli’s mind, overlaid now by the more terrible events that had followed, and he jumped slightly when Dain spoke, torn from his recollections.

“You have not helped your cause,” his cousin said, and Kíli wondered to which cause he was referring until the older dwarf continued. “There were doubters enough already without you giving them a firm reason to doubt. They will use this against you in council, as they well should. Such childish behaviour is ill-befitting of an heir of Durin.”

He frowned, instantly defensive, “I am not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” was the sharp response he received in turn. “There have been many loved ones laid to rest over the past few days, many families torn asunder, but none have resorted to such extreme and selfish tactics as you have employed. You are a King now, crowned or not, and you owe your people the level of maturity such a title asks of you. Thorin raised you better than this, I am sure, and yet you do him no credit by your actions.”

It was a harsh rebuke, all the more so for Kíli knew it was not wholly undeserved, and he struggled for a moment to come up with a fit response. What left his lips in the end was both a plea and denial, the same defence he had thrust at Balin when the old dwarf first told him what they now asked of him.

“I am not a King.”  

And that was no childish lie to escape his duty, but the truth, for he wasn’t. Indeed, the blood that ran in his veins had never been more than an afterthought to him, a tie binding him to his brother and uncle, but not bearing the same importance it had for Thorin and Fíli. They had both been destined to rule, as Kings in Erebor or in exile, but he… he was the second born, the prince, and the throne was not a responsibility he had ever had to consider. Until now. Until this moment where his old life died along with those who had carried him through it, stranding him in this new world of new expectations, with no reprieve granted in which to catch his breath.

“Not yet,” Dain agreed mildly, in a tone that belied his former severity. “But the laws of our people dictate that you could be.”

But he shouldn’t have been. Should not be. This could not be real. This could not be the tale his life had become. He could not have lost almost the whole of his family only to be told it was now his duty to stand in their place, to wear the crown his uncle should have worn, to rule the people that would one day have been his brother’s to rule. To turn his back on the chance of saving them because a responsibility that was not even his demanded he stay here and look to the people Thorin had dedicated his life to returning to their home. His uncle would not have wanted him to abandon that duty, he knew, and Kíli found himself suddenly torn between what he knew Thorin would have asked of him and what his heart demanded be done.

“We are kin, you and I, and we have much in common.” Dain folded his arms and leant back against the parapets, his voice softer again, kinder. “I was younger than you are now when Thror tried to retake Moria, and that battle, my first, is one I shall never truly forget. I lost my father to the massacre of Azanulbizar, to Azog, and found myself suddenly saddled with the responsibility of leading an army. Then, when victory was attained, governing a realm. It is no easy thing to rule a kingdom, and it was made all that much harder by my youth. You are now facing a challenge much the same, Kíli.”

“But I can’t,” he protested softly, mind racing, searching for a way out. A means of avoiding this burden he had never expected and most certainly never desired. “I am not what Erebor needs. I… I stole the Arkenstone. Thorin _banished_ me. I cannot rule.”

Dain’s gaze was calm and steady as he repelled Kíli’s argument with a simple statement of his own. “Words I am told he revoked on the battlefield, after you came to his aid, and saved his life.”

Except that Kíli had not saved his life, or else it would have been upon Thorin’s shoulders that this duty fell, not his own. But there was still that chance… _Please, let there still be a chance…_

“Nobody believes that,” he said, then realized he had spoken aloud.

“Believes what?” Dain asked mildly, but there was a light in his eyes that told Kíli he knew more than his words suggested.

“That I saved Thorin’s life,” he answered truthfully, for if he was to be thought mad he may as well ensure it was an universal belief, not just one held by his friends. “They will not believe that he could still be alive. That _Fíli_ could be alive.”

Dain’s expression was unreadable, and Kíli could not begin to guess what he was thinking. “It seems an unlikely chance, does it not?”

“We just reclaimed a mountain from a _dragon_ ,” he found himself answering with more sharpness than he had intended. “That was a less than unlikely chance, and yet some still dared to risk it.”

“A fair point,” Dain conceded, inclining his head slightly. “But you stood upon that battlefield yourself, Kíli. You almost lost your life to it. Can you honestly say it is more likely they are alive than dead, when most have already accepted their loss and buried them?”

“I do not care if it is more likely,” he maintained stubbornly, setting his chin. “I do not believe it.”

“Then why are you still here?”

It was not the question he had been expecting, and he turned to Dain in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Dain elaborated, “If you truly believe there is a chance that Thorin and Fíli survived, why are you not already in pursuit?”

“Nobody will help me.” He thought that much obvious, and he was hardly in a fit state to go careening across Middle Earth alone. “And I have duties here.”

“Ah.” Dain looked pleased. “Then you have not forgotten those entirely.”

“Of course I have not forgotten them.” He frowned, for _remembering_ those duties was a part of the problem.

“Though they may linger on your mind, it is not so clear to others that your thoughts are upon the responsibilities that have fallen to you,” the Lord of the Iron Hills said. “Your actions have raised many questions of late. Enough so that the Seven have called for a Council to decide whether or not you are fit to wear the crown.”

He had not expected to hear that, and turned to Dain in a mixture of confusion and alarm. “Can they do that?”

“I do not think we can afford to stop them,” answered Dain. "Not with what ruin the last mad king wrought.”

Kíli’s heart sank. “You think me mad?”

“I think you are too like Thorin for your own good,” Dain sighed. “And stubbornness is a trait that may either serve you well or lead you entirely astray. The fact of the matter is, Kíli, that time is against you. This is not easy, I know it is not, but you are of the line of Durin, and you have more lives to consider here than your own. Winter is drawing in, the citizens of Laketown are without their homes, and there are debts yet to be settled. Erebor has stood empty for over sixty years, it will need work to make it liveable again, time to restore and repair what the dragon destroyed, and provisions will need to be made for food and other necessities until the mountain can once more provide for itself. That is just the beginnings of what must be done. Your people have a need of you, so you must put aside your grief for the time being and focus instead upon their needs. You already have the goodwill of Bard of Esgaroth, and, dare I say it, King Thranduil as well. Your influence over any bargain made with either will be far greater than mine.”

“I cannot.” He shook his head again, denying what was asked of him, raging against this fate. “I cannot do it.”

“But you will,” Dain predicted. “Because you must.”

He gazed up at his cousin, begging, pleading for another answer. But, though Dain’s gaze was not without sympathy, it was also immovable, set, as unyielding as the fate now thrust upon him.

“A king has many duties,” the older dwarf observed, when Kíli did not speak. “But he also has many powers. You may yet find that the answer to your quandary lies in that which you are trying to avoid.” Sliding a hand into the pocket of his coat, the Lord of the Iron Hills removed a wrapped bundle that had been stowed there, pressing the familiar weight of it into Kíli’s hands as he said, “After all, no king rules alone, and _someone_ must return west to escort the citizens of Erebor to their home.”

 


	11. The Heir of Erebor

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 11**

**_ The Heir of Erebor _ **

 

Dale had once been called a great city of men, known far and wide for its wealth and the prosperity its people enjoyed, both aided along by the agreement of mutual benefit the city’s lords shared with whomever bore the title of King Under the Mountain. Dale and Erebor had long stood side by side, and there was evidence of this to be seen in what was now called a ruin, where dwarvish stone stood sturdy still despite what damage the dragon had done all those years ago.

"Smaug targeted the markets and courtyards, the watchtowers and guard posts on the walls," Bard explained, as he guided Kíli and Bilbo through the men, elves, and dwarves working shoulder to shoulder in the city's heart. Though the matter of the treasure’s distribution had yet to be settled Dain had already sent what men he could spare to aid in Dale's restoration, an act that had doubtlessly gone a long way towards smoothing badly ruffled feathers. "Places where people were gathered, or where defence was attempted. Whole portions of the city lie in utter ruin, but there are others like this, fit but for the wear of time, and even that is minimal. With a little work it shall be habitable again, and there are enough ready hands to see that work done."

"What about food?" Bilbo asked as all three came to a halt on the highest point of the street they had just traversed, gazing back over the workmen at their various tasks. There was laughter down there among the toil, a sign of the indomitable spirit that existed here despite a concerted effort to snuff it out, and Kíli found himself taking heart in that knowledge. If these men of Laketown, dispossessed of their home and bearing the loss of loved ones, could find reason to hold faith, then surely his own hope held more merit than his companions allowed it. "I haven't seen a single decent thing growing around the mountain. What will you eat?"

"There are a few small farms inland that Smaug's flames did not touch," Bard answered with the knowledge of a man who had already foreseen this particular hardship and had already looked to a solution. It was, Kíli knew, what he should have been doing for his own people, the duties he had been ignoring and the negligence for which Dain had taken him to task. "And fish enough in the lake if one knows where to look. King Thranduil has already promised to meet whatever need for nourishment we cannot manage ourselves. It is the shelter that worries me more. A whole town lies displaced, and, even with so many willing hands, it will be difficult to house them all before the weather turns. The best we can hope for at present is to get the young, sick, and elderly in sturdier lodgings. The rest, I fear, will have to make do."

Kíli absorbed the bowman’s words in silence, his thoughts drifting to charred, floating logs drifting on frigid waters, all that was now left of Laketown.

"This is our fault," he whispered, and realized he had spoken aloud only when Bard glanced down at him.

"If the wizard speaks true our enemy meant to use the dragon as a weapon of war," the bowman replied. "I grieve the loss of Esgaroth, and the lives of those Smaug slew in his rage, but I believe we could have suffered worse. Had the Company of Thorin Oakenshield not come we would have had no warning. No chance to prepare before the dragon was upon us. I will not say that no mistakes were made, but I do not think blame for what happened can be assigned to any one cause."

"But, still." Kíli shook his head. "Your people are without a home..."

Bard laughed slightly at that, his tone dry as he said, "It is funny, is it not, that all of a sudden they are _my_ people? It took but a dragon's fire to show Esgaroth what they should have known from the very start; The Master of the Lake is nothing more than a conniving coward."

"And yet you said there are still people following him," Bilbo commented.

"Aye, so I did," Bard answered, starting off down another street. "It was bound to happen. People react to disaster in a number of ways, Master Hobbit, but where most will rise from the ashes ready and determined to begin anew, there will always be those such as the Master and his ilk, willing only to lament their loss and thrust blame upon anyone but themselves. Fortunately they are not many, and I doubt the Master himself will bear his title for much longer. The people have had enough of his pretty words and false promises. He has, at long last, lost his charm. Esgaroth will have a new Master, and, if the people are wise, they will choose one who will see to rebuilding their town, rather than a man who sits upon a hoard that should be shared and waits for others to clean up his mess."

"I imagine he's regretting that now," Bilbo replied. "Letting you clean up his mess, I mean. He certainly wasn't all that happy to see his spoils being divvied out to others."

"Indeed not, Master Baggins," Bard agreed wholeheartedly. "But the people were most grateful for his generosity."

They had come to another rise now, this one taller than the last, and Kíli felt his gaze drawn by the sight of Erebor's Gates, standing tall and proud despite the hole Smaug had made when he burst forth from the dwarf kingdom. He could not escape the mountain no matter what he did, it seemed, for it was always there, looming on the horizon, resting on his shoulders.

"And what of you, Prince Kíli?" Bard's question drew his attention, and he tore his gaze away from Erebor to meet the man's steady regard. "You are having political troubles of your own, or so I have heard."

"It is nothing," he lied, shrugging away the thoughts that had been weighing like leaden weights on his mind all day. He had accepted Bard's offer through Bilbo to see Dale as a means of distracting himself, both from thoughts of the Council now set to be held on the morrow and the fact very few of the Company were willing to speak to him right now. Only Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur seemed unaffected by his decision not to be present at the funeral rites, and he had seen little enough of any of them since Balin first raised the issue of the crown that their continued support made very little difference. He was feeling decidedly short of allies at present, a fact that was doing nothing to contribute to his confidence in facing the morrow.

"It is never nothing," Bard countered. "But I will not pry. I fear we all have troubles enough of our own without getting involved in the political foibles of our separate peoples."

Turning away from the view of Erebor, the new Lord of Dale beckoned for his two companions to follow.

"Come now," he said. "I have more to show you. There is a garden in the north-eastern corner, and you will not believe what survived the dragon fire..."

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

The Company as a whole moved into Erebor that afternoon on Dain's insistence, occupying rooms that had been too small for Smaug to leave his mark upon, but had still needed clearing of those inevitable signs of the years they had lain empty. They were not the only ones now living beneath the mountain, in fact the majority of Dain's able-bodied soldiers had found themselves a niche inside Erebor, with only the severely wounded left in the communal healing tents. Kíli himself had been offered the King's quarters, but had turned them down, opting for a smaller set of chambers nearer to the other members of the Company. He did not mean to spend much time in them regardless, and escaped as soon as he was able, pacing Erebor’s empty corridors in solitude until he found himself, much to his surprise, standing in the throne room, staring up at the great chair from which his grandfather had once ruled.

He heard Dain’s approach this time, and turned as his cousin drew near, offering Dain the slightest of nods as the ruler of the Iron Hills came to a halt beside him.

“It will be a long time, I think, regardless of what happens tomorrow, before either of us finds the time to sit upon the throne,” Dain said, eyeing the symbolic chair with a slight frown. “There is too much work to be done to allow for a King who sits upon his laurels.”

“I’m not even sure what that means,” Kíli answered. "Thorin… Thorin was not a great believer in idle hands, royal or otherwise. We never wanted for a task to keep us busy.”

_Was_. He had said _was_ , subscribing to the belief all others had, and he immediately reprimanded himself for his error.

“That is as well,” Dain answered, unaware of his inner thoughts. “For it will be a long time before you are anything _but_ busy should you take on this burden."

“Should _I_ take it on?” Kíli queried. “I was under the impression it was not even my choice. Whatever the council decides…”

“Will depend entirely on you,” Dain interjected before he could finish speaking. “This council is as much a test as it is anything else. What authority they have to deny or grant you the throne is limited, for it will not even be an official gathering. There was not time to assemble emissaries from all seven kingdoms, they are ambassadors only, spokesmen, here on behalf of their lords, and not all of them will necessarily look to the welfare of Erebor when they cast their vote."

Kíli’s scowl deepened as he tried to wrap his mind around that statement. “What does that mean?”

“It means that a fair number of dwarf lords have ambitions beyond governing their own realm.” Dain was blunt, and spared him nothing. “They are not simply testing your ability to rule, Kíli, they are testing your malleability, how easy a puppet you will be in their hands. Not all feel that way, of course, but some will, and they will find you a far more promising prospect than I when it comes to manipulation.”

Or a more capable ruler, Kíli thought, and wondered if his cousin upon the throne of Erebor would be such a very bad thing after all. Dain was not of Thror’s line, it was true, but he was still descended of Durin’s blood, and knew far more about ruling a kingdom than Kíli did. The end result of the council seemed almost a foregone conclusion to the young dwarf, for who, in their right mind, would choose a child-prince as king when they had a seasoned lord? Well, according to Dain, those who wanted to rule via a figurehead, but Kíli was an Heir of Durin, and if any dwarf was foolish enough to think _that_ line would be easily controlled then they had not been paying attention for the last hundred years or so.

“It is still your choice,” Dain observed neutrally, taking a step towards the throne, then placing his back to it as he turned to face Kíli. "No matter what the rest of your Company believes. They cannot decide for you.”

It might have been a comforting thought, had Kíli known _how_ to decide for himself. The crown would bring him a certain amount of authority, it was true, but with that authority came the responsibility of Erebor, a kingdom he would have to place before his family even if he only took the throne to save them. Thorin would accept nothing less of him, he knew, and even now the thought of disappointing his uncle was difficult to swallow. It was that fear that made him question, that made him wonder if he could afford to travel west in the pretence of riding to Ered Luin, potentially leaving Erebor leaderless should he not return? Or would it be better to not even attempt to grasp that power, to simply let the crown fall to Dain, and place his kin first, where he felt they were meant to be? But if he chose the latter he would have no support in his endeavour, no way of convincing others to join him, no power to _make_ them, and what were his chances of succeeding alone? None, he knew, or as good as, and if he _did_ succeed, what then? How was he to face Thorin – and he would, because his uncle was not _dead_ – and tell him that his kingdom was now another’s?

Except Dain had given him a way around that last hurdle, knowing full well what it was he did, and Kíli could not help but wonder why. There was, after all, a reason that the Lord of the Iron Hills had rarely visited his kin in the Blue Mountains, and Thorin’s relationship with his cousin had always been more one of tolerance than actual kinship.

“Lord Dain, can I ask you a question?”

The ruler of the Iron Hills inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You may.”

Kíli hesitated a beat, wondering if it was indeed wise to voice his thoughts, then wondered why wisdom had suddenly become such a concern for him when it had never been before. “Why did you and Thorin quarrel?”

For a moment Dain seemed taken aback by the question, but it only took him a few moments to recover. “It happened outside Moria,” he said, and Kíli absently wondered if there was anything that had happened that was _not_ connected to that terrible battle. “Do you know of what happened to Frerin?” Kíli nodded, and Dain continued, “When the orcs retreated Thorin was ready to pursue them right through the very gates of Moria, as far as need be to save those who had been taken. He had too few warriors to do so on his own, however, and so he asked me for aid.”

“And you said no,” Kíli guessed, earning a sombre nod from the Lord of the Iron Hills.

“It was a hopeless venture, more hopeless even than the attempt to capture Moria itself. I had lost too much already to risk more, but Thorin…” The older dwarf shrugged. “Well, you knew your uncle, Kíli. He never fully forgave me, not with Frerin among the dead.”

How many times had he heard those words, he wondered? How many times had he heard of betrayal, death, and a denial of aid with a refusal for forgiveness in its wake? Thorin didn’t forgive _anyone_ , and he found himself suddenly doubting Balin’s tale of his own pardon. There had been no other witnesses to the act, no proof besides Balin’s words, and he did not remember… But Balin would not lie, surely? Not even to ensure that one of Thror’s line ruled in Erebor, as he seemed so set upon. Dain spoke of the other kingdoms wanting a King they could mold for their own purposes, but of late he was feeling like nothing more than an instrument the Company meant to use to complete Thorin’s legacy. Someone to play the role of the exiled King coming into his own so that the story could have a happy ending, instead of some unknown face showing up at the tale’s end to claim crown and reward both. He was certain they didn’t mean it like that, but, with almost all his friends choosing to believe him a delusion child over risking the pain his one hope was an empty prospect, he could not quite banish the feeling that he was being used.

He was giving them what they wanted, but what was he receiving in return?

“It is growing late,” Dain stated, breaking through his reverie. “And we both must be up with the sunrise.”

“Because it is utterly impossible to hold vitally important councils at a decent hour,” Kíli grumbled without a thought for the dwarf in whose company he now stood, and startled slightly when his words earned him a loud laugh from his cousin.

“Spoken like a true Heir of Durin, dear cousin,” he said, giving Kíli a light slap on his good shoulder. “Bring that spirit to the council tomorrow and you will find thwarting them all an easy task indeed.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

As promised, Kíli was roused in the hour before dawn by a meek and apologetic Ori. The youngest of the three brothers brought with him a formal uniform gifted from Dain, as well as a stern summons to the council with an added note from Balin to remind him this was not a duty he could ignore as he had others. After assuring Ori he would honour the request, Kíli was left alone again to stare distastefully at the raiment Dain had provided. Changing at all was a hideously painful business with his shoulder so adverse to undue movement, and the thought of doing so now for such a purpose was less than appealing. Nevertheless, Kíli knew his duty, and, no matter how much he might rail against it in his mind, he would not ignore it.

It took him a good deal longer to don the fine but surprisingly comfortable garments than he would have liked, and, though he managed to coax his right arm through the sleeve of both the shirt and tunic, the coat was out of the question, and he was forced to simply button the collar and let the right sleeve dangle. By that time the hour of the council was growing near, and he was left with the unenviable task of trying to braid his hair one handed and get his clasp attached before the whole thing came unravelled. Normally he would not have bothered at all, but he had been taught the importance of representing his house well, and knew appearing before the assembly in his usual, scraggly state would not do at all. However, after the fifth attempt at trying to tame his unhelpful mane, his patience deserted him, and he cast the heirloom to the floor in a fit of temper before proceeding to do the same with whatever objects lay in reach of his hand.

It was into the midst of this fiery explosion of temper that Bofur entered, avoiding with an ease that seemed born of practice the water basin Kíli had hurled across the room a second before. The basin hit the frame of the door and clattered to the floor, still frustratingly intact, leaving Kíli to stand with his chest heaving from his sudden exertion, facing his elected escort over the disaster zone that was now his room.

"By all rights I should be scolding you right now," Bofur began, a shameless grin on his face. "But bless me if it ain't good to see some life in you again, lad."

Kíli drew in a shuddering breath, falling back against the stone wall and letting himself slide until he hit the floor. He had no words to give Bofur, just the burnt out remnants of his brief fit of fury, and an empty chasm where his heart ought to be.

"Now then," Bofur counselled, sliding an arm around Kíli's shoulders as he took a seat beside the huddled archer. "This isn’t any place for a prince to sit, is it? You’ve got appearances to keep up and all that… "

"I know." Bent almost double over his knees, his good arm resting on his leg as his hand ran frenetically through his tousled hair grasping at loose strands, Kíli closed his eyes and tried to quiet his laboured breathing, along with the anger that still waited inside of him for just the right moment to be released. He had minutes, mere _minutes_ before he would be asked to make a decision, and he still did not know what that decision would be. What it _should_ be. "I know, Bofur, I know. I just... I can't..."

"Deep breaths, laddie," the toymaker coaxed, tugging his hand away from his hair gently. Kíli used it instead to cover his face, feeling the distinct tug against his scalp as Bofur worked a braid through his hair to fall down the back of his head, pinning it in place with the clasp he had retrieved from the floor. "There you go," he added, with an encouraging slap to Kíli's sound shoulder. "That's all you needed, a wee bit of help."

It was a twofold message, Kíli knew, and he answered it by allowing Bofur to haul him to his feet and smooth out the creases his loss of temper had caused. Once the older dwarf was satisfied he placed both hands on the younger's shoulders and stared him straight in the eyes.

"Now, you remember to hold your head high, laddie. You are an heir of Durin, Thorin's heir, and no one has got any right to tell you different."

_Except Thorin_. Kíli's thoughts were brittle, and he wished desperately that he could recall the words Thorin had spoken over him when had fallen. Balin had assured him of Thorin's forgiveness, but Kíli could not remember it no matter how hard he tried.

Moving to stand behind him, Bofur gave him a light shove, and Kíli had no choice but to step forward and meet the storm outside.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Storm, it turned out, was no exaggeration, and no amount of lectures from Balin or encouraging words from Bofur could have prepared him for what he walked into that morning. Most of the Company would not meet his gaze as he took his place at the table between Bilbo and Gandalf, two people he had never been more grateful to see in his life. Their presence meant what remained of the Company as a whole were all paying witness to today’s events, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Oin, Ori, Dori, and even the disreputable Nori, and yet less than half of those so much as glanced his way. It was because of the burial, he knew, and his refusal to attend, and he wondered bleakly how long it would be before they accused him of inheriting the madness that had afflicted his forbears. Bilbo offered him a minuscule smile as he took his seat, and he couldn't decide whether he imagined the wink Gandalf threw his way or not.

Dain rose almost as soon as the doors to the chamber were closed, addressing all those gathered, though the representatives of the noble houses arrayed on either side of him no doubt already knew what their leader would say.

"'Tis both a sad and glorious day for all our kin," the Lord of the Iron Hills began. "For, whilst we have reclaimed our home at long last, it is a prize that did not come cheaply, and many lives were paid in its achieving. I am not alone, I think, when I say that no loss is more grievous than that of my cousin, Thorin Oakenshield, without whom none of us would be standing here. His death is a sore blow to all, all the more so because it leaves Erebor without the leader who should even now be standing at our helm, guiding us in the restoration of this once great kingdom. It is to that purpose we now gather, at the bequest of those representatives of the seven houses who are present here with us today, to select one to take his place and bear the heavy burden of healing what damage the dragon and battle has wrought. I myself hold claim to that post as Thorin's cousin, and as a leader already among our people, but Prince Kíli, sister-son to our fallen king and member of his Company, also has a right to that same throne. Which one of us is to ascend to that post is the decision that now lies before you, a choice neither he nor I may gainsay or argue once it is made. As companions who have served alongside Prince Kíli, the members of the Company shall argue on his behalf. For myself I call upon members of my court who have stood alongside me for the duration of my governance, and know me better than any others. The final decision shall be cast by vote once all arguments have been heard. The Company shall begin."

Balin rose as Dain retook his seat, the spokesman among them and the one least likely to incite a riot.

"I would ask what right Dain Ironfoot has to claim a throne he would not risk even one man for," the oldest dwarf began calmly. "When Thorin sought aid on this quest Dain refused to answer, and did not come to Erebor until assured the dragon was dead and the treasure in dwarf hands once more."

"There is truth in your words," one of Dain's followers immediately broke his silence. "But let us not forget that the dwarves of the Iron Hills had paid blood toll already to Thror's line. Dain's own father perished in Thror's ill-conceived attempt to reclaim Moria, and many others were slaughtered at Azanulbizar. For our sacrifice there alone some reward is deserved."

"Some, yes, but not a throne," Balin agreed mildly. "It is Thror, not Thorin, who led your people to their doom, and his was a debt owed to all who followed him, not simply the dwarves of the Iron Hills."

Another of Dain's supporters gave argument, and so the morning marched on in sharp debate with words bandied with as much skill and lethality as any sword. Kíli gave up trying to follow the twisted paths of the verbal conflict long before it was concluded, wishing earnestly that there was a way to cradle his throbbing head without being utterly transparent. He had been taught better than to show such weakness, however, so he sat still, upright but seemingly relaxed, and let the conversation ebb and flow around him. It was only when a sudden silence fell that he realized he had been addressed directly, and lifting his head slowly he met the dark gaze of the speaker as calmly as he could manage.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," the dwarf replied with deliberate pronunciation. "How can the people of Erebor trust a king who hands their greatest treasure to the enemy when under siege? Perhaps you would like to enlighten us, Prince Kíli, as to why, exactly, the Arkenstone was in King Bard's possession?"

Kíli stared back mutely, wholly taken aback by the accusation, and acutely aware of the ringing silence on his side of the table. His theft of the Arkenstone was not yet an act any of his comrades fully understood, much less condoned, and he realized with cold clarity that he was entirely alone in this.

"I did not hand Erebor's greatest treasure to the enemy," he denied at last, ignoring the incredulous looks that came from both sides of the table. "For its greatest treasure lies yet in Ered Luin, and elsewhere in Middle Earth, in the form of its people. The Arkenstone was little more than a pretty stone, and certainly not worth the lives that would have been spent on its behalf. I do not regret taking it, and I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant ensuring my people's safety."

There were mutters from all around the table at that statement, and then a dwarf on Dain's side of the table raised his voice above the rest.

"I ask again," he said sharply. "What sort of a king hands such an important relic to the enemy, and then names it naught but a pretty stone! The Arkenstone is one of the prides of our people, that upon which oaths of loyalty were sworn to the king among us, and if Prince Kíli cannot see its value how is he to rule a nation built on such beauty?"

"You ask what kind of king he would make?" Unexpectedly, Gandalf spoke up. "A much wiser one than you, Master Dwarf, with wisdom and sight enough not to fall victim to the gold lust that even now threatens the wellbeing of this nation. You came late, when the dragon's curse was already abated, but do not think you are immune. Out of all those here present, I would name young Kíli alone as the only one not still at risk of the sickness."

" _That_ sickness, perhaps," the dwarf on Dain's right retorted. "But madness afflicted both sides of his family. His bloodlines already predispose him to an illness of another kind, and I see signs of its manifestation already."

" _Valin_ ," Dain spoke in what Kíli guessed to be warning tones, but went ignored.

"Tell me, Prince Kíli, why did you not attend the burial of your kin, as custom and familial tradition dictate you should?"

"I refuse to bury those who are not dead," Kíli answered, knowing and dreading what was to come next.

"That said, would any care to enlighten me," Valin addressed the table as a whole. "As to how Erebor would benefit from a mad king?"

The chaos that erupted in the wake of that question was somewhat inevitable, and Kíli shrank back from the table as the debate suddenly became more heated than an ale fuelled tavern brawl. Whilst Kíli and Dain remained relatively calm and settled – at least, on the outside – their respective followers and advisors seemed about ready to maul one another. Nestled between a tranquil Gandalf and a decidedly rattled Bilbo as he was, Kíli was spared any undue jostling, but the clamour of noise was excruciating, turning the mild ache in his head to a fully-fledged assault. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to bear it for as long as he was able, still hoping Dain would intervene, but Thorin's cousin continued to sit quietly, unperturbed, and at last Kíli could stand it no more.

" _Enough_!"

When he had risen to his feet he did not know, but his voice easily drowned out the racket and turned all eyes to him.

"This 'debate', if one can even call such goings on by so civilized a title, has gone on long enough!” Ire fuelled his words, and he was scarcely aware of the many pairs of eyes outright staring at him as he took them all to task despite the fact all but Ori held a fair number of years on him in age. "Erebor needs a king, and she needs one now. One who will rebuild steady relationships with her neighbours and lead her forward to a peace that respects her glory of old. One who would see it restored so that her people might finally come home. This mountain has seen enough division in its halls, and more will only weaken her further. In light of that truth, therefore." Here, Kíli found Dain's gaze and held it. He had made his choice, and there was no going back. This he knew and accepted, and inwardly prayed that Thorin would one day forgive him. "I withdraw any and all claims to the throne of Erebor, hereby willingly abdicating as its rightful king and heir and allowing its inheritance to fall upon Dain Ironfoot, he who stands next in line." He let his gaze travel then, round the shocked to silence table. "That should end this debate for good, I believe."

With that curt farewell he shoved his chair aside and stormed from the room, hearing as the doors closed behind him that arguments had broken out once again. He heard Dwalin's voice – dear, ever-loyal Dwalin – booming in his defence even as he hastened away.

"The Prince is still grieving, you can't take what he says..."

The rest was lost to him as he turned away from the main corridor, using his knowledge of the mountain's interior, gleaned from too many lonely nights wanderings its depths in search of sleep, to evade any pursuit as he carved a vague and circuitous route back to the rooms that had been allotted to him. His bags were already packed, his decision on this matter having already been made regardless of which way the council fell, and he wasted no time in tossing them across his shoulder along with his weapons. He was met with no resistance on his way out, not even a guard at the gates, and it was not until he began to leave the mountain's shadow that he espied a set of familiar faces.

Legolas sat before him astride an unmistakably elven steed, and beside him, mounted on a similar creature, sat Gandalf and Bilbo, Beorn's intimidating height flanking them both.

"My dear boy," Gandalf said, in response to Kíli's utterly bewildered look. "You did not really think we were simply going to let you run off into the blue all on your own, did you?"

Approaching them both, Kíli tossed a fleeting glance Bilbo's way, earning a small smile and a shrug from the halfling, before turning back to Gandalf.

"You really do believe me, then?"

"What I believe would not seem to matter," the wizard replied enigmatically. "You are set on this no matter what anyone says, and just as stubborn as your uncle in seeing it through. However, if, unlike Thorin, you have it in you to swallow the taste of elven company, you will have a mighty fine guide as far as the western borders of Mirkwood, and no better way to hide your tracks from those who will follow."

Kíli threw Gandalf a puzzled look, but it was Bilbo who explained.

"We might," the hobbit began. "Have promised to faithfully watch you and ensure you did not do anything rash until Balin or one of the others was free to knock some sense into you. I daresay there will be a mighty row as soon as they realize we have vanished."

Kíli could not help himself. He laughed, hope filling him for the first time since he had awoken, and relief following close on its heels at the thought some of his friends were not wholly against him in this ill-advised endeavour.

"In that case, Master Baggins,” he said with a broad grin, “Let us be off, before the wrath of Dwalin comes raining down upon our heads."

 


	12. Unlikely Friends in Unlikely Places

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 12**

**_ Unlikely Friends in Unlikely Places _ **

 

Fear.

It dogged his every footstep, nipping at his heels and driving him onwards. Ever onwards. It lent him speed even as it slowed him down, gnawing at the back of his mind with the knowledge he was too late.

_Too late. Too late. Always too late_.

He scrambled, stumbling, hands groping in the dark, straining for something that lay just beyond his reach. His fingers caught on fur, tugged and pulled, and for a second, just a brief second, he saw a familiar face. Blond hair and blue eyes that met his own in stark relief. And then there were teeth, harsh growls and a mighty roar as the hand he held was ripped from his grasp. He leapt forward, desperate, but his fingers closed around empty air.

“Fíli!”

Kíli bolted upright, then backpedalled as quickly as he could go as he suddenly found himself staring into the truly fearsome visage of a great, black bear. He could only go so far before his back hit the tree behind him, and then he simply stayed, pressed against the aged bark and gaping at the great beast whose size was not at all disguised by the shadows. Beorn stood impassively, watching him through dark eyes, then with a rumbling grunt he turned and rambled away into the forest once more. Kíli remained where he was, trying to convince his pounding heart to slow down, only to have it take off again when a light laugh from above startled him. Swinging his head up he glared at the elf dropping from the branches above him, a gesture which did not deter Legolas in the slightest.

“It is not a sight I would wish to wake to, either,” the elf prince confessed, coming to stand beside the dwarf. “But I do not believe he meant to eat you in your sleep, if that is any comfort.”

It was. Not that Kíli thought Beorn would have waited until he was sleeping had he really wanted to harm him. He had heard tales of how the skinchanger had thrown mounted orcs _and_ their wargs through the air as though they weighed nothing during the battle. One small dwarf would hardly be a challenge at all.

Pushing that slightly disturbing thought from his mind Kíli used the tree to lever himself to his feet, pacing across to the smouldering remains of their campfire and stirring it back to life. There were no eyes peering at them from the forest this time, whatever they had belonged to gone from the night, and the fire provided a welcome ward against the chill of winter. Bilbo had taken full advantage of that, and would have been on fire himself were he any closer to the small blaze, whilst Gandalf had taken up his usual post a little way off, leaning against a tree with his hat and staff beside him. Both seemed to be sleeping, though Kíli knew enough of the habits of his traveling companions to know either or both could be pretending. He ignored them for the time being, his gaze drifting beyond the circle of safe light cast by the blaze into the shrouded shadows beneath the trees. Beorn was out there somewhere, pacing in circles about their camp, but Mirkwood still made him uneasy.

“You watch the forest as though you expect it to eat you.” Legolas had not moved, and so Kíli turned to face the elf as he answered.

“It made a fair effort last time I was here.”

“The spiders are no more,” the elven prince asserted firmly. “We drove them off, and with Dol Guldur now fallen they shall not return.”

“There is still a presence of evil here.” Bilbo had spoken of it when they passed through the elven gate, and they had all felt it, pressing in upon them from all sides with nothing but malice. That same feeling was still present now, if greatly faded, and it set Kíli’s nerves even more on edge than they already were.

“The taint will take time to fade.” There was a hint of sadness to Legolas’ words, and Kíli was reminded that these woods he would so gladly be rid of were in fact the home of his unlikely guide. “We allowed it to sink too deep before we were rid of it, and our inaction has cost us much.” Silence fell for a moment, then the elf seemed to shake himself out of his melancholy. “But the Greenwood shall recover.” Turning away from the forest he met Kíli’s stare directly. “And what of you, Master Dwarf? How are you faring?”

It was a good question, Kíli conceded, though he was not yet certain of the answer. Nine days had elapsed since the battle when his unlikely band of rescuers departed from Erebor. Nine days in which Bolg had garnered a lead those pursuing him would be hard pressed to diminish. Nine days in which those who may yet have lived could have met their end. It seemed an eternity of time lost, but nine days was not, when one considered it, so very long at all for a grievous injury to heal, and Kíli’s shoulder was troubling him a great deal more than he would have liked.

“I will manage,” was all he said aloud, because he _had_ to. He had come too far already to be turned back by weakness.

Legolas simply nodded, thankfully making no mention of the fact the only reason they had chosen to halt for the night was because Kíli had ‘managed’ to fall from the back of a horse Legolas had claimed would never drop its rider. He was inclined to blame that on the supposition the elvish horse was no fonder of dwarves than its master, but seeing as Legolas had saved him from introducing his face to the ground in a most painful manner that argument could not really stand. Truth be told he remembered little of the day’s journey, and could not yet decide whether he should be grateful for that absence of knowledge or not.

“What do you plan to do once you leave the forest?” Legolas broke the silence again, leaning against the tree he had been residing in minutes before and watching him with keen eyes.

He probably should have been flattered that the elf thought he had a plan at all, but Legolas’ question was little more than a disheartening reminder that he had no idea how he was actually to go about this task. Bolg was making for Gundabad, of that the scouts who had pursued him had been certain. Dol Guldur was now closed to him, and Moria was too great a distance to risk with the Woods of Lorien still on high alert. That left Gundabad, the first home the orcs had stolen from Durin’s Folk, and a rumoured fortress they would have no trouble holding even with their grossly lessened numbers. If Bolg had taken prisoners, that is where he would keep them, and so it was where Kíli must follow. But the chase was not the hardest part of this venture. What they encountered when they arrived would prove to be the true challenge, Kíli knew, and as yet he had no idea how he was going to overcome that particular hurdle.

Shrugging, he answered honestly, “I suppose I will figure it out once I get there.”

Legolas blinked a moment, his reply impassive. “That is easily the worst conceived plan I have ever heard.”

He knew that. He did not need to be _told_.

“Yes, well, if you have not heard I took leave of my senses some days ago. Madmen are not known for their strategic brilliance.”

“No, they are not,” the elf agreed simply. “But neither are they known for attracting the aid of a wizard and a skinchanger.”

“Or an elf,” Kíli muttered, half to himself, before voicing the question that had been preying on his mind since they left Erebor. "Why _are_ you here, Legolas? What possible reason could an elf of King Thranduil’s court, his _son_ , no less, have for wanting to help me? It is no secret that our families abhor one another. My side, at least, is quite open about it, and I’m sure the elves are no different. There is no _reason_ for you to help me.”

“Clearly there is, or I would not be here, would I?” Legolas replied, the smirk on his lips telling the dwarf archer he knew full well how infuriating that response was.

“Or perhaps you are not helping at all?” he suggested. “Maybe you are simply finding the most convenient place in this accursed forest to strand us forever.”

“I very much doubt whether Mithrandir and Beorn would appreciate being stranded,” Legolas observed. “And your burglar can be quite a fearsome creature when enraged.”

“Bilbo?” That made him pause for thought.

“The Halfling that took on a dragon,” the elf prince reminded him. “It is not a feat that will soon be forgotten. It will be a long time, I think, ere anyone looks upon your small friend and judges him on his size alone.”

That was all true, but…”Stop changing the subject. I deserve an honest answer.”

“Consider it a favour returned,” Legolas answered him without hesitation. “Even if you did not act with our welfare in mind, your actions in handing over the Arkenstone were a noble and selfless effort to prevent bloodshed. Few would have done the same in your position, and your actions deserve some form of reward.”

Was that… _respect_ he could hear in the Prince of Greenwood’s voice? He hesitated to name it as such, for he very rarely garnered respect from anyone, much less an elf. But it was there in Legolas’ gaze as well, the same steady regard, and he wavered between deciding he had heard what he thought he heard and wondering if the elven prince was mocking him somehow without his knowledge.

“It did not do any good in the end, though, did it?” he said at last, voicing the very reason that respect should not even _exist_. His actions had been worthless in the end. Worse, still, they could very well be the reason his family was missing. If only he had not agreed to Bilbo’s plan. He would have _been_ there. He would have been at Thorin’s side. At Fíli’s side. Everything could have been so very different had he not committed treason that served no good purpose in the end. “There was still a war.”

“The worth of the outcome does not detract from the value of the deed itself,” came the elf’s musing response. “And, if nothing else, your actions that day won you many friends.”

Upon which he could have founded a kingdom, had he decided to become king. But he hadn’t, and his family was the price he had paid for those friendships.

“How much of a chance do you think there is, really?” He hadn’t dared to ask that question of any who had shown even the slightest shred of faith in his belief. But he was committed to this task now, and so, it seemed, were the rest of his unlikely companions. They would not turn back from what they had begun, so he felt safe in asking what could easily have been a precursor to a refusal to help.

“That your kinsmen were taken captive?” Legolas paused, turning his head aside as he stared into the darkness of the woods around them. “I believe it is just as likely Bolg carried them off the battlefield as it is that they died there.”

“But?” There was more, he could sense it, even if the elvish prince didn’t seem willing to speak it.

“But, in my mind, whether or not they were taken is not what is in question here, nor is it what should most concern you.” Turning back to the dwarf, Legolas met his gaze through the shadows, his fair voice carrying words weighted with dread. “What you must consider is whether or not they will still be alive when you find them.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

Mirkwood was not a place Bilbo had ever thought he would willingly set foot in again. The forest carried no pleasant memories for the stalwart hobbit, and he would have much preferred to go around that which had once been called Greenwood the Great than through it. With their quarry already so many days ahead of them, however, the shorter route had been a necessary evil, and if Legolas' presence was an assurance against losing their way then Beorn could have been a shield for how effectively he kept what evil things still lurked beneath the trees at bay.

They travelled at speed, and with a surer sense of direction than they had on the first trip through the forest. There was still a feel of heaviness to the air, a lingering touch of dark magic, but it had abated since Bilbo was last beneath the old trees of the forest, and did not carry the overbearing weight it once had. Nevertheless, he was thankful for their swift movement, if not for the perpetual ache riding for so long awoke in his legs, and by their third night in the forest he had almost grown comfortable enough to sleep through the night without startling awake every half hour with the phantom touch of spider webs on his skin.

Which was ironic, really, because that was the same night Beorn abandoned them, traveling on ahead with a promise to meet them at the forest’ edge. Legolas had taken over the ceaseless watch the skinchanger kept, but Bilbo was forced to admit that an elf standing guard was nowhere near as reassuring as a giant bear, which perhaps explained why he was sitting upright with absolutely no intention of falling to sleep despite the late hour. He was not alone in this, either, he noted, for Kíli was propped against a log just outside the circle of firelight, toying with the fletching on his full quiver of arrows. How he meant to use his bow when his dominant arm was still tightly strapped across his chest Bilbo did not know, but he supposed the sheer familiarity of the weapon might offer some form of comfort.

“You are staring, Master Baggins.” Caught, Bilbo jumped, an apology on his lips even as Kíli lifted his head to offer the hobbit a weary grin. “I assure you I am not at all fascinating.”

“Infuriating perhaps, but not fascinating,” Bilbo agreed heartedly, rising and moving to sit beside the young dwarf. “And as eager as me to be rid of this wretched forest, I’d wager.”

“You are simply upset that there has been no chance for heroics this time,” Kíli teased him. “No spiders. No elves. And no _barrels_.”

“As if I would want to encounter any of those again,” Bilbo shuddered. “Though, the elves did have quite an appetizing banquet, now that I think of it…”

Kíli laughed softly in response, and Bilbo was cheered by the sound. The young dwarf had been reminding him too much of Thorin lately, with his grim face and sober words, and it seemed to the hobbit that their small company was feeling sorely the absence of Bofur. They had not thought to ask any of the more amenable members of the Company if they wanted to come along, acting in secrecy as they had, but after the all but constant silence of the past three days Bilbo was beginning to wish they had.

“We never thanked you properly, did we?” Kíli said quietly, setting his quiver aside to focus all his attention on the Halfling instead. “For all your help.”

“I signed a contract,” Bilbo reminded him lightly.

“Which did not include saving the lives of stubborn dwarves time and time again, and then going out of your way to try and knock some sense into them when theirs was nowhere to be found. If you had merely stuck to the contract, Master Baggins, we would still have been sitting in the elven king’s dungeon, if we had made it that far at all.”

That was all true, he supposed, but then Bilbo could not really imagine having chosen otherwise than he had, contract or not. He had made many friends on this journey, and he had kept going out of loyalty to them more than anything else. If that loyalty had not been returned at the end of the journey, well, that was hardly Kíli’s fault. If memory served correctly the young prince had been one of a very few to actually believe he was even fit for an adventure, his jovial ‘he’s just _fine_ ’ that evening in Bag End the closest thing to a ringing endorsement Bilbo had received from any of the assembled Company.

“All things I will be sure to remind Thorin of once we have rescued him,” he said aloud, earning himself an unreadable glance from Kíli as some of the good humour faded from the archer’s eyes. Concerned, he immediately asked, “What is it?”

“He would have to be alive for you to tell him that, Bilbo,” was the soft-spoken response, and Bilbo straightened instantly.

“But isn’t that why we are here?” he demanded. “To rescue them? Kíli, do not tell me you are giving up now!”

“I’m not giving up,” Kíli insisted at once. “I’m not. I’d follow Bolg to the ends of Middle Earth if I had to. It’s just…”

“Just?” the hobbit prompted, eyes never leaving his companion’s shadowed face.

“Dwalin told me a story the day before the burial,” Kíli continued slowly. “About my Uncle Frerin, and what the orcs did to him before returning his body to his family, and I just… What if we _do_ find them, Bilbo? What if we arrive too late, and they’re…”

“What if we don’t arrive at all and they’re not?” the hobbit countered. "Bolg’s been on the run since the battle. I doubt he’s had a chance to do much of anything yet if he does have them, so we just have to be quick.”

“You make it sound so simple, Master Baggins,” Kíli said quietly, and Bilbo shrugged.

“It is,” he insisted. “We’re going to find them, Kíli, and they’re going to be fine.”

The young dwarf cast him a doubtful glance. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s Thorin,” Bilbo answered. “And he’s too stubborn to let them be anything else.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

They made it to the eaves of Mirkwood shortly after midday on the fourth day, and were greeted at the wood’s borders by Beorn, a crowd of the huge man’s ponies, and the company of scouts that had pursued Bolg from Erebor’s doorstep through the long miles travelled since. Legolas immediately nudged his horse forward to hear what the captain of the scouts had to say even as Gandalf and Bilbo reunited with their skinchanging companion, and Kíli, mounted behind him, had little choice but to go along.

“What news, Tauriel?” Legolas asked, and the fiery-haired elf maiden at the company’s head was quick to reply.

“They have gone to ground beneath Gundabad, my lord, as expected,” she reported, a strong sense of satisfaction audible in her next words. “But we were able to lessen their numbers on the final stretch. One of them was carrying this.”

She tossed a sheathed blade across the space between them, Legolas easily snaring it from the air, and Kíli gasped as soon as he set eyes upon the weapon.

“That is Thorin’s!” he exclaimed, recognizing the blade that had saved his life, and Legolas cast him a quick glance before turning back to Tauriel.

“Your message said there was no sign of prisoners.”

“And we have not seen any till now,” Tauriel answered him readily. “If they are carrying captives with them they have gone through great pains to conceal them. That blade may be nothing more than a trophy.”

“Or a sign of hope.” Legolas studied the blade from Erebor’s hoard for a moment, then passed it back to Kíli. The young dwarf grasped it tightly in his good hand, the first true sign he had had that his hope was not completely unfounded. He drew strength from the cool steel, hardening his resolve once more. "Tauriel, how fresh are you men?”

“Able to ride many more leagues if you require us to, my lord,” the captain assured him at once, straightening in her saddle.

“You are, perhaps,” Legolas said, sounding amused. “But what of them?”

He nodded towards the other three mounted elves, and Tauriel turned to speak to them in their own tongue. Kíli was left momentarily lost as the conversation continued on around him, but whatever decision was made seemed to satisfy Legolas, for he threw his leg across his horse’s neck and slid to the ground, beckoning Kíli to follow him.

“Their horses need rest,” he explained, as they walked back to join the rest of their waiting company. “A couple of hours, no more, then Tauriel’s company shall take you on to Gundabad.”

“You are not coming with us?” Kíli faltered, surprised by how much that thought troubled him. They had not exchanged a great many words over the past four days, but those they had had meant something. Absently, he thought Thorin would have been horrified to see either one of his nephew’s close to befriending an elf, but the thought was sharp and painful, and he shoved it quickly aside.

“Alas, I cannot.” Legolas shook his head regretfully. “I have orders from my father to take word to Rivendell of what happened on the slopes of Erebor. Something much larger was afoot than simple battle over the mountain, and all the Wise need to know the events that befell there.”

It did not take him more than few seconds to guess what that might mean. “Then Thranduil does not know you helped me?”

“My father has respect for you, Prince Kíli,” Legolas replied. “But he would not have given his permission for me to accompany you on what seems such a hopeless venture. We were traveling the same way, that is all, and it shall be the same with Tauriel’s company. They will take you to Gundabad, but they can go no further than that.” He paused, briefly, and then offered an apology, “I am sorry. I would do more, if it was within my power.”

“You have done more than enough.” It was a painful truth, but the elven prince had done more for him than most of his own kin, and Kíli might have said more had Bilbo not haled him.

“Kíli, come over here! Beorn has brought us some of his honey and bread, so you had best come and get a decent meal whilst it is on offer.” His eyes widened as they drew nearer, and he saw what it was Kíli held in his hand. “Is that…?”

“Thorin’s.” He extended his hand to let the hobbit take the masterfully crafted blade, his gaze flicking to Gandalf’s impassive features as he said, “The first good sign we have had.”

“A sign I fear must bring us to that which we have been avoiding thus far,” the wizard interceded. "A means of entering the mountain. This is not Erebor, my friends, and I do not possess either a map or key to allow us entrance to those ancient deeps.”

“We will find a way in,” Kíli insisted firmly, buoyed by the slimmest of proofs that had been offered. If a hope founded on nothing had brought him this far then that invoked by the sight of his uncle’s blade could surely carry him twice the distance. “Even if we have to march through the front door.”

“And there is that accursed Durin recklessness,” Gandalf scolded him at once. “Do not think I have come all this way simply to watch you get yourself killed, my foolish young friend. No, we are going to go about this carefully, and wisely, and a great deal less thoughtlessly than the dragon was handled.”

“Agreed,” Bilbo said at once, with understandable haste, and Kíli ducked his head, suitably chastened.

“The front door would not be a wise choice at all,” Beorn said, in his slow, weighted speech. "But there are other ways beneath Gundabad, if you know whom to ask. Some of your kin dwell yet in the Grey Mountains. It may be they can offer your aid."

“There are dwarves in Ered Mithrin?" Kíli asked, lifting his head in surprise.

"A small colony," Beorn rumbled in confirmation. "If your king was taken to Gundabad, they are nearer than any others. They dwell in Nordinbad, by the lake of Azan-zâram, but they are a strange lot for dwarves. They covet their secrecy as others covet gold, and have little to do with the outside world. I do not know if they will help you, but if any know of secret paths beneath that orc-infested peak it will be they."

“Then we must speak with them,” Kíli decided. “For Thorin and Fíli’s sake, we must try.”

 

 

 


	13. Stubborn is in the Blood

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 13**

**_ Stubborn is in the Blood _ **

Tauriel’s company had made the journey from the foothills of the Grey Mountains to the Elven Gate in just three days, riding both day and night and taking full advantage of the legendary endurance of their steeds. It was a speed Kíli’s own party could not hope to match, for, whilst sturdy and brave, the ponies lent to Bilbo and Kíli by Beorn were not as stalwart as their Eldar cousins, and the company’s haste was further hampered by the limitations of some of its members – namely his own. Kíli had known full well he wasn’t recovered when he made his escape from Erebor. The simple task of changing back into clothes fit for travel had proven that much, but he had been hoping – the only thing he seemed to do of late – that it would be a simple matter of willpower and the sheer stubbornness Thorin had invoked on such regular occasions. And it had worked at first, so long as the elven medicine that had been given to him the moment he was released from their immediate supervision lasted, but even rationed into doses that were far below those he had been instructed to use it had not lasted long beyond Mirkwood’s border, and by the end of their fourth day riding along the Anduin’s bank the dull, persistent ache in his side and shoulder had grown into a fiery monster.

He had made a point of not showing any sign of his pain before his companions, wiping every grimace off his face when Bilbo or Gandalf glanced his way, stifling the sounds that threatened to escape his clenched teeth every time his pony’s gait jolted his injuries further, and being suitably thankful for the fact Beorn seemed content to simply ignore him. He had, somewhat foolishly, forgotten to account for the rest of the company, mostly because they seemed much of a mind with Beorn, happy to mind their own business and let him mind his. Legolas had spoken to them again before departing, and Kíli had to wonder what the prince had said, because not a single member of the small scouting party had treated him with anything but the most courteous respect. It was disconcerting to be in the middle of a band of elves and have not a single one of them looking disapproving or at least a little unfriendly, and maybe he should have realized earlier than he did that that meant they might show at least a small amount of concern if they realized he was in pain.

If he was truly honest with himself, however, he didn’t have much on his mind by the sun’s fourth setting beyond lying down and hoping sleep would prove the miracle cure his body was sorely in need of. He more fell than sat upon his bedroll, and that considerably harder than intended impact didn’t help matters in the slightest, leaving him half-lying, half-sitting against his packs and trying to keep breathing without screaming with each exhale.

The pain was not that bad, he assured himself stubbornly, he could manage.

_Liar_ , his tortured limbs threw back at him, and sent black spots dancing across his vision to prove their point.

He did not even see the elf captain until she was standing right above him, a small satchel hanging at her side and worry in her eyes as she towered over him.

“Can you not?” Somehow, he somewhere found the strength to muster a grin, though he feared it likely appeared as more of a grimace than it should. “I’m already at a disadvantage.”    

“My apologies.” In a single, fluid movement she knelt at his side, offering him a small smile in return. “Is this better?”

He was still half on his back, in pain, and short on breath, but he had to commend her for trying. “Much.”

Tauriel nodded, her smile fading slightly as her eyes drifted to his bound arm. "You are in pain,” she stated, the words not a question. “And you have been hiding it from your companions all day.”

He winced, though he felt like doing something more extreme, and let his head fall back against his pack. “Clearly not very well.”

“From the ones who matter, at least,” she corrected her prior statement. “But you will not be able to keep this ruse up much longer, and it would not be wise to do so. No matter how urgently you wish to continue, bringing yourself to harm through negligence will not aid you in this endeavour.”

“Well, I’m not turning back,” he said, flatly and immovably. “So I guess there’s nothing else to do, is there?”

“You could allow me to tend to your injury,” Tauriel offered instead, motioning to the single satchel she had brought with her. Kíli glanced between her and it for a moment, before raising an eyebrow in question.

“Not just a captain, but a healer as well?”

She laughed slightly, the sound as fair as any that escaped the lips of the Eldar. "It is what many would have preferred I be,” she confessed, wearing the look of one recalling a fond memory. “I did train for a time beneath the greatest healers serving King Thranduil, but my blunders were so many they eventually tired of my presence.”

Kíli blinked. “That… is not entirely reassuring.”

“Oh, I know the craft well enough, Master Dwarf,” she assured him at once, her smile widening. “It was simply not the path I wished to pursue. I am told I was very stubborn as a child, though some would argue that trait has not abated with age.”

She was trying to set him at ease, and Kíli was not entirely disappointed by the fact it was working. “In that case I suppose it would not be wise to argue with you.”

“A fact the majority of my men would agree with, I assure you.”

She stretched out her hands, but had the courtesy to wait on his nod before helping him undo the bindings holding his injured arm in place. It was as much of an effort shrugging his way out of his coat and shirt as it had been getting in the damnable things, and by the time Tauriel had begun unravelling the bandages that formed the layer beneath he was capable of doing little more than lying where he had fallen, watching her face and wondering if he should be glad that he could not truly see the extent of the damage. The brief look of shock that flitted across her face told him he was probably better off not knowing, and he resisted the tempting urge to try and raise his arm from where she had placed it. Oin’s warning was still stuck in his mind, however, and if he felt useless now with one hand constantly tied in place how bad would he feel if the affliction became permanent?

“This is not a trifle, Prince Kíli,” Tauriel observed, sitting back on her heels as she ran her eyes across wounds he could not see. “I would say you have managed well to make it this far. How did you ever convince the healers to let you out of their charge?”

“I can be charming when I want to be?” he suggested, earning himself a sidelong glance.

“I do not doubt it,” the elf-maid answered. “But I suspect sheer stubbornness is the more likely cause. Unfortunately, even that will only carry you so far. This is healing well, believe it or not, despite the ordeal you have put yourself through when you should have been doing nothing but resting. I will do what I can to make you more comfortable, but I fear I do not have the supplies I would like in my possession to treat it with.”

Kíli lifted his one, good shoulder in a half shrug. “I suppose I should have thought to raid the healers’ supplies before I ran away.”

“You would not have been running anywhere had you tried to steal from the King’s healers,” Tauriel told him with the knowledge of first-hand experience as she rummaged through her satchel. “Do not let their gentle manners deceive you, Prince Kíli, they run like the wind.” Having found what she sought, she removed two items from the bag and set them beside her knee before turning back to him. “I have a salve here that will numb the pain, if nothing else, and a cordial to lend you strength, though you must be cautious in its use. If you do not feel pain it is harder to know your limits, so you must ere on the side of caution, or risk making yourself worse.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, and hoped he was not lying, for the extent to which he would risk himself depended on how much was asked of him to see this quest end in something besides tragedy.

“Somehow, I doubt that.” The Captain’s look was knowing. “You do not strike me as a careful person, Prince Kíli.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head slightly to the side to see her face better. “Which particular injury gave that away?”

Her smile was brief this time, fleeting, and her response was more sober than he expected. “War can take even the most cautious warrior unaware.”

There was always a story behind such words, Kíli knew, but now was not the time to ask. Instead he allowed her to finish her ministrations in silence, grimacing his way through the task of redressing that was no less arduous for the fact his entire right side was now feeling decidedly numb, and then doubtfully eyeing the measly two drops of cordial she added to his water flask.

“It is strong,” she explained, seeing his expression, then handed the flask over. “Drink and then sleep. We move at sunrise.”

“Thank you.” he spoke before she could return to her company, the words sincere, and the elf-maid turned back to him with a small half smile.

“Thank me in the morning,” she said, and walked away.    

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli awoke at dawn to the scent of pipeweed and the soft murmur of muted conversation. Opening his eyes he frowned a moment at the smoke-formed ponies and trolls cavorting about above him, then rolled over onto his side to blink in confusion at the nearest of his companions.

"Gandalf?"

"Ah." The wizard turned to him with a kindly smile. "There you are. We were starting to get worried."

He frowned, all the more confused, and it was Bilbo who offered an answer.

“You’ve been sleeping for three nights and two days,” the hobbit said disapprovingly, though Kíli had the strangest feeling it wasn’t the length of his slumber Bilbo disapproved of. “And by the look of you, even that is not enough.”

His mind was slow to grasp the situation at hand, his head full of cobwebs, but when realization struck him it did so with all the force of a thunderbolt.

“Two _days_?” he exclaimed frantically, pushing himself up as swiftly as his one good arm would allow. “How…”

The world dipped and gave a sickening lurch, and Kíli promptly fell back where he had been lying a moment before. Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once it had he opened his eyes again to be met by the sight of two disapproving faces, one of the individuals to which they belonged holding a decidedly familiar empty flask aloft.

“Elvish medicine,” Gandalf said casually, almost conversationally, and Kíli, knowing this to be a bad sign, slowly pushed himself upright again. His head was still spinning, but it was a bearable sensation if he did not move too swiftly. “Is incredibly diverse. They have remedies for so many things you would not believe how many exist. This particular concoction, if I am not mistaken, is a particularly strong sleeping draught, known to be extremely potent in even the lowest of doses.”

His mind took a few moments to absorb that information, but once it had he let his gaze rove in search of Tauriel, finding the elf captain standing a short distance away.

“You drugged me,” he accused her, earning a slight shrug of apology in return.

“When a wizard makes a request of you, it is not wise to gainsay him,” she replied, nodding towards Gandalf. “Your friends are not so careless with your health as you are. I merely gave you what they knew you needed.”

“A pity she did not give you some common sense to go with it,” Gandalf added sharply as he tossed the empty flask into Kíli’s lap. “How much help do you think it will be to your kin if you take ill before we can even draw near enough to discover if they are truly alive?”

“I can manage.” Gandalf’s words heralded the chance of this entire quest grinding to a halt, and Kíli would not have that. With a mighty effort he gained his feet, standing as tall as he could before the considerably taller wizard and determinedly holding his ground. “Gandalf, we do not have time for delays…”

“Delays, he says!” the wizard exclaimed with a familiar sense of frustration Kíli had heard a dozen times before, always directed at his uncle. “Foolishness and stubbornness, thy name is Kíli! Sit down, boy, before you fall down.”

Kíli did so gratefully, and not without a helping hand from Bilbo that kept him from overbalancing entirely, but he did not take his stare away from the wizard’s face. Gandalf’s expression was discontented, but also thoughtful, and Kíli took that as reason to hope. The wizard was not known for keeping his opinions to himself, after all, and he had yet to make that demand Kíli dreaded most. That he should go back to Erebor. That he should forget this quest and any chance of success it had. That he should do what he could not do, and accept that his family was dead, never to truly know if Thorin had forgiven him or whether Balin was simply trying to ease the pain of his loss. Never to be able to beg his brother's forgiveness, and see once more a glint in his eye that was not put there by the lustre of gold. Because that was what dead meant, wasn't it? Absence in permanence, pain that would never depart, only fade, and the stark reality of a world devoid forevermore of their presence.

“In any case you are fretting needlessly,” Gandalf continued, unaware of his sobering thoughts. “We have come a long way in the time you were sleeping, and you owe Beorn many thanks for playing the part of pack pony. Had he not been willing, we would have simply flung you over the back of one of the actual ponies and let you feel the full consequences of your idiocy.”

Heeding only what was important and not the following rant, Kíli took a moment to do what he had not done before, and glanced about their surroundings in elated surprise. Gone was the Anduin and its slow running waters, for their camp lay now on the green field beside one of its two tributaries, the stream known as the Greylin, and beyond that, looming on the horizon with a presence they had not had two days before, were the snow capped peaks of the Grey Mountains. He had not been prepared for the surge of emotion their sight invoked, and he sat speechless for several long moments, his eyes damper than they should have been. His journey was far from over, but another step closer to its end had been taken, and Kíli could feel his hope and dread warring for dominance with more ferocity each day.

His companions allowed him his moment to gather himself, and _only_ that moment, for he had barely torn his eyes away from the mountains’ ridgeline when Bilbo dumped a bowl and spoon in his lap and stood watch to make sure he consumed it all. Tauriel was next, not at all apologetic for her deceit the last time they had spoken, and Kíli remembered the constant advice Thorin had handed out about not trusting elves and wondered if he should have paid more attention. He did feel better, though, so one could argue she had been acting with his best interest in mind, even if it was on the command of a wizard.

“It is much better,” she told him once she was finished. “But I was not speaking in jest earlier. You must be careful.”

“And not just in regards to my shoulder, obviously,” he fired back. “Did you learn that trick from the healers or the warriors?”

“Neither.” It was not a smile this time, but an honest grin. “I learnt it from my mother.”

With that ambiguous statement she left him in Gandalf’s care, the wizard flanked by Beorn, in human form this time, who was to be their guide now that they had reached the mountains.

“We will go on foot,” the skinchanger said. “It is too steep a climb for the ponies, and we do not wish to alarm those who have taken refuge in the heights.”

“What will happen if we do?” Bilbo asked warily, and Kíli realized that the hobbit was rearranging their packs into two separate bundles. He would have argued against what was clearly an attempt to spare him any added weight, save for the fact he was still feeling decidedly unsteady on his legs.

“I imagine they will fire upon us before we can even knock upon the gates,” Beorn rumbled, either unaware or uncaring of how discomforting his words were. “But we are only four. It is unlikely they will fear us.”

“With our luck, it won’t matter if it’s unlikely or not, it’ll still happen,” the hobbit grumbled, shouldering his own pack and passing the other to Gandalf. “Dwarves are such a ridiculous lot, really. Er… No offense, Kíli.”

“Oh, no, I’m not arguing,” he assured the hobbit. “We are here, are we not?”

“And soon to be elsewhere,” Gandalf concluded, turning as their elven guard approached them, mounted again and ready to make their own departure. Kíli still found it hard to believe they had even _had_ a guard for the journey thus far, much less an eleven one. “Many thanks to you, Tauriel, for all your aid.”

“I am not sure Prince Kíli shares your sentiments,” the elf-maid responded with a smile. “But you are welcome, regardless.” She turned to Kíli then. “For what it is worth, Master Dwarf, I hope you do find them. You deserve nothing less after having come so far.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

It was a sad truth, but Erebor was not the first home Durin's Folk had been forced to flee. Gundabad had been stolen, reclaimed, and stolen again multiple times before the orcs finally took it as their own. Moria had been taken from them by Durin's Bane, that terrifying nemesis whose name was known to all dwarves. The Grey Mountains, however, had been torn from the grasp of Durin's Folk by cold-drakes, the lesser cousins of dragons like Smaug, who had made up for their lack of fire with sheer numbers. Kíli’s own ancestor, Dain I and his son, Fror, had both been slain in that terrible battle, and to this day the treasure halls beneath the mountain range remained infested with the vicious creatures. This perhaps explained why Nordinbad had stood in secrecy for so long, because no dwarf in his right mind would wish to tread the halls in the north whilst the cold drakes still made the Grey Mountains their home.

The path Beorn led them up was on the westernmost of the mountains that formed the Ered Mithrin, a steeply climbing trail that appeared well used for all the difficulty it must surely prove to those who travelled it. There was already snow on the lower flanks of the mount, but the path itself was relatively clear, sheltered almost, and it was not until midday had passed and the evening was drawing in that the small band found themselves forced to tread actual snow. That was when the trail abandoned its straight path and veered away in a looping curve to their right, but their guide chose not to follow it, the skinchanger leading them instead up the rounded height the road had turned to avoid. Trailing behind the rest of his companions, Kíli was the last to mount the small summit, and found his breath catching in the cool air for an entirely different reason than it had over the past few weeks.

The ground dropped steeply away just a few feet before him, a deep ravine carving its way between one rise and another. On the other side of the saddle there stood a taller peak than that they now rested on, its rugged edges stretching higher and higher and narrower and narrower so that tip of the summit was a finely tapered end. It was in that very mountain, shaped in such a way as to be a part of the peak itself, that Nordinbad stood, the setting sun reflecting off its western facing side, making the pale cream stone of which the city was built gleam in the coming twilight.

The face of the city stood some four stories high, each level formed like a step above the other. The lowest was a great, jutting terrace stretched out in a blunted triangle, its prow hanging over the sheer precipice of the valley's side in defiance to the deadly height, and a turret connected to each of its lower corners by a narrow, stone bridge. A second story rose from the midst of the first, smaller and more squared, forming a right and left flank for the third, which itself started directly atop the first in the tall arch of the front gate and stretched above the second to form a defensive battlement above. Kíli could see three windlances placed along the rim of the wall, each pointed in a different direction, and knew that, whatever else it might be, Nordinbad was well defended. The fourth and final story was a round, stone pavilion, the roof of which was itself the mountain’s tip, and behind which on either side could be seen smaller turrets similar to those that flanked the lowest level, reachable by walkways that vanished into the mountain’s flanks. It was an imposing sight, an old dwarvish kingdom still wholly intact, and Kíli wondered suddenly how he was ever going to convince the lord of these halls to risk the safety he had built here for the sake of a king he did not even know.

“The path loops around to the eastern turret,” Beorn explained, breaking the awed silence that had fallen, though Kíli suspected only he and Bilbo had been affected by the sight. Beorn had, after all, been here before, and there seemed very little that inspired awe in the wizard. “But it is not safe to tread at night. There is a cave below we may take shelter in. We can approach the city in the morning, when daybreak may lend the guards more patience for unwanted guests.”

“A mountain cave?” Bilbo said doubtfully. “Don’t those tend to be filled with goblins and the like?”

“The dwarves of Nordinbad keep their lands clear,” Beorn replied simply, turning away from the sight of the city. “Come. Night will fall soon, and you will find that an unmarked pit is just as deadly as an orc’s blade in the dark.”

 


	14. Through the Eyes of Strangers

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 14**

**_ Through the Eyes of Strangers _ **

 

“Are you allowed to take that off?”

There was doubt in Bilbo’s voice as he asked his question, along with something close to alarm, but Kíli remained calm as he worked his arm free of its bindings, answering without even glancing the hobbit’s way.

“This task will be hard enough without giving them extra reason to doubt me, and I do not intend to go in there brandishing my sword. It will not hurt to have it free for a little while.”

“That’s not what the healers said,” Bilbo said sharply, and Kíli raised his head to peer at the Halfling through the strands of loose hair that fell across his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to come with you?”

Kíli sighed, tugging the last of the bracing wraps free and casting them onto the ground beside the stacked packs. Bilbo was referencing the argument of that morning, though, surprisingly, Gandalf had not been entirely against the idea when he voiced it, and Beorn had agreed that the dwarves of Nordinbad were far more likely to _not_ shoot a solitary member of their own race than they were to welcome the strange quartet their company was formed of. It was Bilbo who had raised the most fuss, the hobbit evidently having appointed himself as Kíli’s warden for the extent of this hopeless venture, and not at all pleased by the prince’s mad scheme of the day.

“This is something I need to do myself,” he assured his burglar friend. “If I need help, I’ll be sure to call on you.”

“If you can, you mean,” Bilbo reminded him with what could only be pessimism as he escorted the prince to the cave’s entrance. “How do you know they won’t lock you up or kill you the moment you are in their halls?”

“They’re dwarves, Bilbo, not elves,” Kíli retorted. “And they wouldn’t need to take me inside if they wanted to end me. I’m sure hurling me over the mountain side would do it.”

“A fate, it may be hoped, is not to be yours,” Gandalf said, joining the conversation, but making no move to rise from where he was seated. “You do look a fine mess, so perhaps they will take pity on you.”

“You are all so cheerful this morning,” Kíli grumbled, adjusting the weight of his weapons against his back to ease the strain on his right shoulder.

“We are just wondering how long we should allow you before we come in after you,” Bilbo answered, and Kíli turned to scowl at him.

“I can manage by myself.”

The hobbit gave him a incredulous look in return, and Kíli was reminded that was perhaps not the best choice of words he could have made. Gandalf had certainly not appreciated them, and even Legolas had looked doubtful the first time he used them.

“I am only going to talk to them,” he said aloud, more to reassure himself than they as he tried to forget the fact the fate of his kin may well rest on how eloquently he worded his request.

“Address them as you did the council in Erebor and I am sure you will get along splendidly,” Gandalf answered him confidently, glancing up as Beorn reemerged from wherever he had vanished to in the interim.

“You are ready?” he asked, addressing Kíli directly, and, suddenly without words to offer, the young dwarf simply nodded. Bidding a hasty farewell to Bilbo and Gandalf he followed the skinchanger down from the rise that nestled the place where they had sheltered for the night, trailing in the big man’s footsteps until they reached once more a recognizable road. There they parted ways, and Kíli made a point of not glancing back as he strode on alone.

The path was as narrow and winding as Beorn’s words the night before had implied, a sheer drop on one side that Kíli stayed well away from as he slowly circled the ravine’s eastern wall. He could feel eyes upon him the nearer he drew to the turret, and the feeling of being watched did not abate as he mounted the steps leading to the single opening in the stone structure. He was greeted at the gates by dwarves both dour in face and demeanour, and Kíli got a more than vague impression that they were far from pleased to see him. Resisting the urge to simply turn around and walk away again he stood his ground proudly, not moving or speaking, and keeping his gaze pinned on the one he deduced to be their captain as others came forward to take his weapons. Once he was stripped of his arms the captain stepped forward, his tone sharp and curt.

“Speak, stranger!” he demanded, and there was no warmth in his voice. “What is your purpose in Ered Mithrin?”

“I am Kíli,” he answered, stifling the pain of connections he was not convinced he still had any right to name. “Of Ered Luin. I am here on behalf of Thorin Oakenshield, and desire to speak with the Lord of these Halls."

The Captain looked momentarily startled, though whether that was due to the mention of Kíli’s home or his request was as much a mystery as Nordinbad itself was.

“Bruni!” The Captain turned and shouted, and a dwarf in his middle years darted forth from the group. “Take a message to Lord Northri,” his leader ordered. “Tell him of our guest, and who he claims to be.”

“Yes, father.” Turning on his heel Bruni sprinted off as the Captain turned back to Kíli with a suspicious glance.

“Do you often get visitors claiming to be the envoys of kings when they are not, then?” It was not the most diplomatic thing to say, but Kíli did not appreciate having his word questioned.

“We don’t get visitors at all,” came the grim reply. “And that you know of this place is reason enough for suspicion. I can only imagine what business Thorin Oakenshield might have with Lord Northri, but I doubt it will be to his liking.”

“I said I was here on Thorin’s behalf, not to conduct his business,” Kíli answered.

The Captain frowned. “I see not the difference.”

Kíli simply shook his head, unwilling to elaborate upon his purpose before any other than Lord Northri himself. Instead he let his eyes wander over the walls of Nordinbad, hewn stone as old as that within Erebor itself, a standing beacon of ages past. The sound of quick footsteps brought his gaze back to the main gates, and he watched as Bruni approached his father.

“Lord Northri will see our guest,” he proclaimed. “I am to lead him below.”

“Very well, then.” The Captain beckoned Kíli forward. “You will go with my son,” he told him. “But do not attempt treachery or deceit. Any betrayal of our trust will end with a swift death.”

Kíli nodded his understanding, then followed Bruni silently through the main gates, hearing the finality of their clang behind him. He was truly alone now, with no Bilbo or Gandalf to help him, but he did not let that stop him. The dwarves of Nordinbad held the key to saving his family, there could be not a single faltering step in his quest to acquire their aid.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Northri, son of Dorin, distant descendant of the Line of Durin, had ruled beneath the Grey Mountains for many, many years without anyone being the wiser as to his presence in the ancient halls of Nordinbad. His people had fled there prior to the Battle of Azanulbizar, where King Thror had finally given himself over to madness in its entirety and had tried to reclaim Moria, that place which all dwarves knew to be inhabited by an evil far greater than the orcs that had slain so many of their kin there. Northri, who had been only just come into adulthood when the dragon attacked, had not been willing to face death at the hands of a mad King after having seen his father and brothers perish through wounds brought on by dragon fire and the harshness of the Wild that allowed for no restful recovery. He had instead taken the secret whispered by Dorin on his deathbed, gathering those of his people who were willing, including his own wife and son, and had fled to the ancient, hallowed halls beneath the Ered Mithrin, a secret sanctuary his family had kept hidden from even their own kin for the many generations that had passed since the Grey Mountains were first abandoned by Durin’s Folk. He had never regretted his actions, not after hearing of the slaughter that had befallen at Moria, and he had made it a law in his lands that if any ventured forth to do trade or travel they were not to mention their home or where it lay.

Secrecy was the lifeblood of his people, and it was now threatened.

He had never been overly fond of the line of Thror as a young soldier. Neither the King Under the Mountain nor his son had cared adequately for their people in their exile, too wound up in their own grief at the loss of their riches and home, but Thorin, at least, had earned his respect. There were few princes indeed who would labour so willingly among and for their people, and if bitterness and dark, black fury had taken a stronger hold in his heart each day than Northri could not begrudge him his feelings. Saddled with the burden of leadership when most dwarves were not past their training days, Thorin Oakenshield had proved without question that he was of Durin's blood. But for all his strength and determination Thorin had been unwillingly to do more than speak out against his father and grandfather, he refused to _act_ , and so the massacre of Moria had not been averted.

It was yet another tragedy thrust upon the dwarves of Erebor, but Northri still remembered an exodus at midnight, and a young dwarf prince and his brother, who had both spoken their farewells without rancour, and given their blessing to those who did not wish to face all but certain death alongside them. Thorin had emerged from that battle a King, and Frerin, like so many others, had not emerged at all.  

It was the remembrance of Thorin's actions on that night that had stayed Northri's hand when word came from the front gate of an envoy sent by Durin’s heir. He had not commanded the messenger sent away, no matter how much he might have wished to, because there were debts to be paid here, and, even as he dreaded that the darkness of Thror's line might yet come to enshroud Nordinbad, he would not let this ambassador go unanswered. He must, after all, yet discover how his realm’s secrecy had been betrayed, and to what purpose now Thorin sought his council, perhaps even his aid. He had instead summoned his steward, Galar, and his own son and grandson, Gorin and Nordri, those whose council he valued the most. Together they would hear whatever words were to be spoken, and a decision would be made from there.

Pacing back and forth along the length of the sparsely furnished hall that served as his place of precedence, though no true throne adorned its interior, he ignored Galar’s fierce frown and Nordri’s slightly wondering expression, even whilst noting their vastly different reactions. Like himself, Galar felt a fierce protectiveness for the secrecy of Nordinband, and no great amount of love for the direct Line of Durin. He would sooner see Thorin’s envoy tossed from the heights above than risk losing their safehold. Nordri was young, a mere ninety passes, and, despite Gorin’s efforts to instil lessons he himself had learned in his son, the youth still hungered for the outside world, and listened to tales of battle and glory and riches with an attentive ear. Gorin’s own face was inscrutable, but there was a flash of eager fire in his eyes. His son understood their need for secrecy and would never jeopardize it, but he was not yet wholly impervious to the allure of being a part of the world beyond their home. It made Northri worry, sometimes, for the welfare of his city once he had departed from it, but such worries had no place in the present.

The great doors swung open, and Northri ceased his pacing to turn and watch as Bruni led their visitor forward, his own surprise nearly causing him to startle.

Kíli of Ered Luin had been the name given at the gate, with none of the customary titles or ancestors attached, which suggested the common blood one might expect to see in a messenger. But Northri could easily have mistaken the weatherworn, ragged young dwarf marching towards him with a steady and firm gait as Thorin’s own offspring. The familiar lines of the young face, the dark hair, and even the set of his shoulders screamed of his ties to the Line of Durin. But his eyes, dark and determined and dire, were solely his mother’s. Northri had known Dís, daughter of Thráin, before his flight, perhaps even better than he had known Thorin, and he had no doubts as to who had mothered the young dwarf before him.

But, then, why had he chosen to introduce himself without mention of the lineage that would have immediately afforded him respect? Northri narrowed his eyes as Bruni led Kíli to stand before the assembled council, curiosity and suspicion warring inside him before their guest had even spoken his first word. When at length he did speak it was with both humility and courtesy, two things that often came unlooked for in Durin’s line.

“Hail, Lord Northri,” the young dwarf said with a bow that betrayed a stiffness of limb he had not shown when walking. Northri’s keen eyes noted the way he kept his right arm tightly folded across his chest, and the bruises not quite hidden by the mere shadow of a beard on his cheeks. “You have my thanks for agreeing to see me, and not just tossing me over the nearest convenient cliff.”

That was a swift departure from propriety, and reminded him of the black humour that had often escaped Frerin's lips. He saw Nordri hide a smile out of the corner of his eye even as he answered, “We are not in the habit of receiving guests, but that does not mean we guard our secrecy by killing all those who might threaten it, and certainly not our own kin. Though I would have from you the names of those who betrayed us.”

Such carelessness was inexcusable, after all, and the perpetrators, whoever they proved to be, would be dealt with in short order. If not by himself than by Galar, who was often possessed of the sharper tongue out of the two of them.

“None betrayed you,” Kíli answered simply. “And your secrecy remains intact. I alone was told of your whereabouts, and not by any who now dwell here. I will not give you the name of my informant, but I do give you my word he will not be a danger to you.”

Experience with the young dwarf’s uncle told Northri that was likely to be all the knowledge offered on the subject, and, whilst he dearly wished to demand further answers, he trusted the truth of the matter would be revealed at length. He believed, at least, that Kíli was being honest in both his declaration of whom had been told and the safety of trusting the one who had been doing the telling. It was enough for now, and his curiosity would not let him linger on a matter he could not resolve when there were other things to be spoken of.

“Very well,” he said instead. “I will accept your reassurances for now, if only because there are more urgent matters to discuss. What brings an envoy of Ered Luin to Nordinbad, and why, if one needed to be sent, did Thorin choose a member of his own house?"

The flinch made at the mention of Thorin’s house was barely perceptible, but it was there, and Northri frowned, wondering at its meaning. Had he been wrong in his assumption? But, no, the lad's similarity to Dís, and, to a lesser degree, Thorin and Frerin also, was striking. There could be no doubt as to the blood from whence he came, even if he chose not to announce it. Northri's ponderings were swiftly forgotten, however, when Kíli spoke again.

“I come not from Ered Luin,” he said quietly. “But from Erebor.”

There was a brief, shattering silence, then Galar burst forth in anger.

“Do you take us for fools?” his advisor demanded furiously. "Erebor is lost, and has been lost for longer than you have lived. It is the dragon’s domain now.”

“The dragon is dead.” Kíli’s words fell like heavy stones into the lake of Azan-zâram, sending out thick ripples across the still water. “He was slain by Bard of Esgaroth, descendant of Girion of Dale, when he tried to take vengeance on the people of Lake Town for the aid they offered to Thorin and his Company in their hour of need. He lies now beneath the waters of the Long Lake.”

“Smaug is dead?” Gorin exclaimed in surprise, needing confirmation.

“He is.” Kíli nodded, and there was something unutterably weary about the gesture. “And Erebor is ours again, though a heavy toll in blood was paid for its reclaiming. You live in isolation, but some tiding of the battle must surely have reached you.”

“We knew of orcs and goblins moving throughout the mountain tunnels,” Northri admitted. “But that battle had been joined? That we did not know.”

“It was fought at the foot of the mountain,” Kíli elaborated. “Elves, men, and dwarves stood in allegiance against the enemy, and even then we would have been overwhelmed had it not been for further aid that came unlooked for.”

“Thorin Oakenshield fighting alongside elves?” Galar snorted. “I would think him sooner to die unaided then accept their help.”

“They did not come to offer help,” Kíli replied softly. “They were in the midst of besieging the mountain when the enemy came upon us.”

"And the tale grows even more twisted!" Northri exclaimed. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning, my friend."

"That would make for a long telling." The slight blanching Kíli made at the idea was well concealed, but Northri did not miss the small gesture. Taking a second look at his guest he recognized now how starkly the bruises stood out against pale skin and the sunken shadows beneath dark eyes that betrayed a sorrow too deep to hide. Whilst his demeanour might have been calm and steady, the young dwarf himself was not, and exhaustion shone through in his words and actions despite his efforts to hide it.

"Then perhaps it would be best shared over the morning meal," he replied, coming to a decision. "Come, Kíli. This is a story I would hear."

Though he looked set to protest, Kíli swallowed whatever words were on the tip of his tongue, inclining his head in a gesture of assent, and trailing along when Northri led the gathering to the dining hall. Ignoring the curious stares that were cast their way from the other occupied tables Northri took his place at the head of his own, with Kíli and Nordri on his left hand and Gorin and Galar on his right. Bruni he sent back to his father, much to the younger dwarf's disappointment. Once they were settled, with food placed before them, Northri turned again to his visitor.

"So tell me," he began. "How Thorin Oakenshield came to lead a Company of dwarves in a quest to reclaim Erebor."

"It began with a wizard." Kíli, who despite – or perhaps because of – his pallor seemed to have little interest in the meal laid before him, pushed his plate aside and rested his arms on the table as he spoke. "Gandalf the Grey. Thorin was abroad at the time of their meeting, in Bree, if memory serves aright, and already with ideas of retaking Erebor, though he no doubt thought he was keeping it well hidden from us. His meeting with Gandalf served to offer a means to that end, and when Thorin returned to Ered Luin it was with the purpose of gathering together those who were willing to dare the dragon's keep. In the end, twelve of us answered the call, with Gandalf, Thorin, and our Burglar making fifteen."

"A burglar?" Nordri interrupted. "Why did you need a burglar?"

"There were thirteen of us," Kíli reminded him with black amusement. "Force of arms was never going to work. Not if we kept to the plan Gandalf had conceived for us. Though few in number we hoped to use that to our advantage, and set off without trying to attain further aid. We were pursued all across the Lone Lands by orcs out of Moria, led by none other than Azog the Defiler, but eventually made it to Rivendell still in one piece. From there we struck out across the Misty Mountains, and, after a brief mishap in Goblin Town, we made it out the other side, if a good deal further north then we had intended. We travelled through Mirkwood next, and were again waylaid by Thranduil, but escaped his hospitality also and at length made it to Lake Town, where we took the time to gain provisions and rest before setting out for the mountain itself. The front gates were still closed to us, but, thanks to Gandalf, we knew of another way into the mountain, though it took a goodly amount of time to find. From there our Burglar scouted out the mountain's interior, and was able to discern a weakness in Smaug's armour, which Bard of Dale in turn used to slay the beast when he descended upon Esgaroth in rage. We had news of the dragon's death through Roac the raven, who also brought word of an elven army bearing down upon us. Thorin ordered the mountain fortified, and sent word to Dain Ironfoot for aid. We were besieged long before he reached us by both elves and men, who refused Dain entrance to the mountain upon his arrival. It would doubtlessly have come to blows had the enemy not chosen that moment to appear. All grudges were forgotten in the wake of a common foe, and we stood united against the forces Azog had gathered to ensure the destruction of the Line of Durin. Battle was made and many died on both sides, but the united peoples were victorious in the end, and peace was made between them. Smaug and Azog are both perished, and Erebor and Dale are now being healed of the dragon's shadow."

Northri was silent, then, absorbing the unlikely tale. Kíli had abbreviated it mightily, he knew, and he had also not failed to notice that no mention was made of his own ties to Thorin. Something lay yet hidden, though he could not discern what.

"So, then," Galar spoke gruffly. "What is it that the King Under the Mountain desires of us?"

"Nothing," Kíli responded tensely. "For the crown sits now on the head of Dain Ironfoot. Thorin was taken prisoner in the battle, as was his heir, and it is my purpose to rescue them."

He had thought the lad had no further power to surprise him, but he was wrong.

"Prisoner?" Gorin stated bluntly, if with a little more sympathy than Galar. "How do you know he is not simply dead?"

"He was taken alive," Kíli responded firmly. "And lived yet when the orcs took to their tunnels. Bolg was the one to capture him."

Northri instantly stiffened. _Bolg_. There was no dwarf who did not know the name of the dungeon master of Dol Guldur, a skilled torturer who delighted in prolonging the suffering of his foes. The longer he could keep his prisoners in agony the better, and he could well believe Bolg would have desired to take Thorin alive if he could manage it. With Dol Guldur lost to him, he had no doubt made for Gundabad and his keep beneath that mount, taking his prisoners with him, which easily explained the presence of this young warrior in his hall.

"Even if he is alive," he said. "You cannot hope to enter Gundabad alone, much less come out the other side."

"I have companions willing to go with me," Kíli explained. "But I know it is a likely death I walk to, nonetheless. That is why I sought your aid. You know these mountains, and you knew of the orcs moving through their pathways. You must know, then, of a way to get inside the mountain, besides the front gate."

"And what if we do?" Galar demanded. "What would you then ask of us? To throw away what few warriors we have in a vain attempt to save a dwarf who is likely already dead?"

"I would ask nothing but the use of your knowledge." Kíli met Galar's stare with a steady regard of his own, dark eyes carrying a weight of sorrows, and a burden that went beyond his self-imposed quest to save his kin. "I go to my death, but I would not have any of you follow."

There was a grumbling among his councillors at Kíli's words, and Northri himself frowned, torn. The young dwarf's answer was not what he might have expected from one of Kíli's lineage, who called upon followers and expected them to answer without question, but it did not wholly surprise him either. This boy who stood before him now, a mere child who had walked in and out of the fiery chasm of war, wrought now by its flames into something he had not been before, bore no undue pride. Instead there was humility and something close to shame, paired with simple, raw desperation that lingered in the air along with a plea he should have dismissed immediately, but found himself incapable of refusing out of hand. To see that resignation, that willingness to walk to his own death, in one who was younger than his own grandson was a thing he could not ignore.

He had walked away from Thorin and Frerin, his friends, albeit with their blessing, and he remembered well the same look, or something like it, touching both their faces. They had knowingly walked to their deaths and only one had survived the gamble, would he now see the same happen again with young Kíli?

"We must discuss this amongst ourselves," he said at last, feeling the weight of his people's safety weighing on his shoulders, along with the debt he owed Thorin. "You have my leave to wander freely within Nordinbad, but speak of your purpose here to no one."

"As you wish, Lord Northri." Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Kíli rose stiffly and departed from the largely deserted dining hall.

Once he was gone, Nordri spoke, "He was injured, grandfather."

Northri nodded, unsurprised, knowing one would have had to be all but blind to miss the signs. "I know."

"And yet he still wishes to hunt for them?"

His grandson may never have seen battle, but he knew better than to ignore wounds. Shaking his head Northri voiced a sad truth, "The line of Durin has always been foolhardy."

"Nay," unexpectedly, Galar disagreed. "Foolhardiness would be entering the Mount with the expectation of victory. That boy is all but seeking death, and he knows it. That is not foolhardiness, my lord, that is loyalty, and a rare strain of the same indeed."

"I thought you were against aiding him," Gorin said in surprise.

"I was against expelling our strength for such a hopeless cause," Galar corrected his fellow. "But if the boy wishes to hasten to his own demise I will not gainsay him. He is Thorin Oakenshield's nephew, whether he chooses to claim as much or no, and that line was ever prone to feats of either great courage or madness."

“Then the question is not whether we should aid him,” Northri concluded. “But what form that aid should take. Do we give him a means and send him on to his inevitable death, or do we risk all that we have built here and grant him what aid he truly needs?”

No answer was immediately forthcoming, and Northri settled back in his seat with a slight sigh. This would, without a doubt, be a long debate, and so he turned to his grandson.

“Nordri, see to my rounds for the morning, if you would. I fear we may be here a long while.”

 


	15. The Honor of the Indebted

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 15**

**_ The Honor of the Indebted  _ **

 

Dwarf kingdoms, with or without treasure, were often things of excess. One had only to look at Erebor's grand walkways, arching staircases, and towering ceilings to realize dwarves believed in grandeur as a way of life. Even in Ered Luin, where their riches were much humbler fare and their homes far simpler, there had been signs of the same; extravagant halls, ornate stonework, great doors into hallways that stood many times higher than they needed to be. But such was not the case in Nordinbad.

The pathways Kíli walked as he slowly explored the city were more of natural stone than carved walls, caverns more than halls. Rough edges had been left untouched, fashioned only where absolutely necessary, and even decoration proved a sparse thing. A few paintings adorned rock faces sporadically along the route he walked, but most seemed haphazard, a second thought, added only to cover any blemishes in the stone that did not add to Nordinbad's rustic beauty. The true crowning glory of Northri's halls, however, was the lake of Azan-Zâram, a natural wonder Kíli found more beautiful than any gemstones he had ever seen.

Only a single, humble stone bridge spanned the blue-tinted waters of the lake, a clear effort not to disturb or change the natural wonder. Wild rock formations jutted up from the waters and down from ceiling above, each with its own unique shape, and shafts of light made the water glow where they made their way down through airways leading outside. A multitude of small waterfalls poured into the still waters from fissures in the walls, and even the cavern that housed the water was a work of art, stone curving and twisting in truly awe inspiring patterns. It was not hard to see why any who stumbled across this haven might desire to keep it a secret, and Kíli doubted anew the chances of Lord Northri lending him aid. When this was all he had to lose, why would he ever risk it?

"Beautiful, is it not?" The voice that addressed him was not young, and Kíli turned to find himself face to face with an elderly dwarf maiden, her grey hair pulled back into elaborate, circling braids and her dark eyes twinkling with a sense of youth her wizened face did not show as she strode across to join him on the bridge. "Nordinbad is not rich in gold or jewels, nor is it overabundant in other metals, and I daresay most would think us mad for choosing to live here, starved of most basic necessities and with little wealth to our names, but there are some things upon which a price cannot be laid.”

“It is beautiful,” he agreed softly, eyes straying across the brilliant waters of the underground lake, before returning to the face of his companion. “I can see why Lord Northri would want to keep this place hidden.”

“Aye,” she agreed with a slight smile. “My husband puts great faith in the safety of secrecy, and it has certainly been beneficial to those who dwell here, but sometimes I cannot help but think of those we left behind. Those we abandoned.” She turned from the lake then, meeting Kíli’s gaze directly as she asked, “I have not seen Dís for many a long year. How is your mother?”

“She is well.” Actually, that could well be a blatant lie, for Kíli did not how much news Gloin had chosen to send back to Ered Luin. Had his mother been told of Thorin and Fíli’s supposed passing yet? Did she know he himself was gone from the mountain? The ravens carried news swiftly, and he was struck by sudden guilt, realizing for the first time how grossly he had neglected his duty to the one person who he should have been thinking of the most. Thorin’s death alone would have been heart-breaking for his mother, without news that Fíli had fallen as well, and if she was told he was missing too…

“Of course she is,” the Lady of Nordinbad commented, breaking through his panicked, spiralling thoughts. “She was always strong, that one. Erebor’s greatest treasure, as we used to call her.”  

“Thorin still does,” he offered, earning himself a smile from his elder.

“I’m not surprised,” she said, a glint of memory in her eyes. “She’s the only person I know who could turn that dwarf as soft as butter and then turn around and give him an upbraiding for something no other would dare.” She seemed to shake herself slightly then, pulling away from her recollections as she scolded herself. “But where are my manners? Here I am rattling away about old times and I have not even introduced myself yet! I am Runa, wife of Northri and the Lady of these halls. It is an honour to have you here among us, Prince Kíli.”

She had clearly spoken to her lord before coming to see him, and Kíli fought the urge to cringe at the title. He had never borne it before his theft of the Arkenstone, and, though he was certain all those who had uttered it since had meant well, he shrank from the many meanings it carried with it.

“I am not sure Lord Northri would agree with that sentiment,” he answered cautiously, earning a light laugh from his companion.

“He is not one to appreciate a good shake up, that is for certain,” she agreed amiably. “But that does not mean he is displeased to see you. We both served the royal house for a time, he in the guard and I as one of the princess’ companions, and if there is one thing I would have chosen not to trade in exchange for our safety here it would have been the friendships we forged with the youngest generation of Thror’s house. I would have liked to see the home Thorin built for our people in Ered Luin, or the dwarf who managed to tame your mother’s wild heart. Alas, these are the things we sacrificed for our home, our sanctuary, not all without regret.”

He could well understand the sentiment, the price he had paid in Erebor’s reclaiming well beyond that he would have chosen to had the decision not been taken out of his hands. Thorin had filled his and Fíli’s childhood with stories of the mountain and what it could have been for them, but Kíli had never been discontented with his lot in Ered Luin. He had had a home there, formed of the people he called his family, and in trying to reclaim another of a more material sort he had lost that which was far more precious to him. That which he was now striving to retrieve, with no guarantee success was even still a possibility.

A hand landed on his cheek, and he jerked his head up in surprise, staring into the compassionate gaze of the Lady of Nordinbad.

“You poor child,” she murmured sadly. “What has the world done to you?”

He did not have an answer to offer her, words lost to him, and none seemed expected regardless. Runa did not wait for an answer, or even permission, taking matters into her own hands as she stepped forward and enshrouded him in a motherly embrace. Kíli stiffened briefly, the comfort from an essential stranger both unexpected and unlooked for, yet at the same time sorely needed. Runa’s grasp was loose enough to allow him to pull away should he wish to, but the desire to stay where he was proved stronger than the thought that he should not, and his sound arm rose of its own accord to return the hold as he tucked his head down and buried his face in her shoulder to hide from all that he could not escape.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

It was midday before Kíli was called back to the grand dining hall, Runa having spent the morning escorting him around Nordinbad and shamelessly sharing tales of his mother and uncles’ youth that he was quite certain neither would ever have told him given the choice, and then comparing them with the exploits of her own son and grandson. She had kept their conversation light, far from the purpose it was clear she knew had drawn him here, but that had not stopped it from preying on his mind, so that his heart was filled with nothing but dread as he stepped through the archway into the hall and then stopped utterly dead. The room that had been formerly deserted was now flooded with Nordinbad’s citizens, every table filled, and every eye turned to where their lord utilized his own as a podium, visible to all in the room.

From his height he spotted Kíli and Runa immediately, and beckoned both forward. Acutely conscious of the many curious gazes pinned upon him Kíli hastened across the space between the door and the Lord of Nordinbad’s chosen perch as swiftly as he could manage, only to be hauled up by Gorin and made to stand right alongside Northri once he got there. Those that were watching him did not do so for long, however, turning to Northri as their lord began to speak.

“My friends,” he boomed, voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. “Many of you will still remember the day when these halls were reclaimed by our people, and those of you who were not there to see it happen have been told the tale often enough. You will remember how a fire breathing menace stole Erebor from us and turned us out into the Wild. You know of the hardships we suffered, the toil it was simply to survive, and the fear that hovered over all our heads as to an uncertain future.” He lowered his voice then, his words taking on a darker, more sorrowful hint. “Many of you will remember,” he said. “The day the scouts returned from Moria, and told us of the impossible odds against which our king wished us to march. You will recall the fear, the utter surety of death, and the hopelessness many of us held in our hearts when we realized our time had come. Thror failed his people that day, he betrayed our trust, and were it not for the actions of another none of us would be standing here today, and this home we so cherish would still stand empty, devoid of the life we have brought to its halls.”

Northri paused then, letting his word sink in, letting the murmurs that had arisen die down, then he spoke again.  

“None of you who were there will have forgotten it. The night before. The eerie sense of impending doom. I still remember the hope that dawned in your faces when I told you there was a place where we might seek shelter, but even then it was a cautious hope. Durin’s Folk are a people of honour, and we would not desert our kinsmen. We would not flee as thieves in the night. None of us would have left the field of battle without the blessing of one with the right to give it, and I know I speak for more than myself when I say that the debt this people owes to Thorin Oakenshield is not one we shall soon forget. But, my friends, today we have been called upon to answer that debt.”

Kíli, who had pinned his eyes on the toes of his boots to avoid looking out at the crowd, lifted them now to stare at the Lord of Nordinbad, not quite daring to believe Northri’s words meant what his heart demanded they must. Northri tilted his head to meet his glance but briefly, then turned to address those gathered once more.

“We here in Nordinbad value secrecy above wealth, but we value honour and family above even that. That is the treasure of our home, that is what we hope never to lose. Today, I met a Prince of Durin’s Line who embodies both those values, and who came here with news both great and dreadful. Even we, untouched though we are now by these events, shall celebrate the sure knowledge that Smaug the Terrible has fallen, driven at last from the halls he stole, and that Erebor is in the hands of Durin’s Folk once more!”

His words were met with a loud roar of approval, and Northri waited again until the noise had died down.

“But more happened at Erebor than the simple slaying of a dragon. The orcs and goblins we marked traveling east did so with a purpose, with a mind for war, and the tale I heard from Prince Kíli this morn spoke of a fierce battle fought at the mountain’s foot, and of bloodshed and death in abundance. The battle was won, but not without a price, and Thorin Oakenshield, he to whom Nordinbad owes a great debt, was taken captive by the orc lord Bolg.” The Lord of Nordinbad paused for breath, but not a word was spoke in the interim, an utter silence having fallen over the crowd. “None here do not know the name. None here do not know what a fate befalls those who come to be in Bolg’s keeping. And so I come at last to the reason Prince Kíli stands in our midst today. To the request he has asked of us, a request I alone cannot answer, for it is such that you each must weigh it in your own hearts, and decide whether this, here and now, is the moment when we shall at last repay our debt to he who gave us our freedom. Prince Kíli intends to enter Gundabad and rescue those who have been taken. The question I am asking you is this; Who here is willing to go with him?”

The hall fell suddenly quiet, so that Kíli could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears as his eyes darted back and forth across the sea of faces. These were the people in whose hands the fate of his kin rested, and his chances of success rested upon the knife’s edge that was whether they chose to say yes or no. Time seemed to slow and stop as he stood there, the seconds stretching into eternity, suddenly leaping back into motion when a single dwarf stepped out from the ranks and spoke.

“I will go, Lord Northri.”

“Bain,” Northri nodded to the volunteer, and Kíli belatedly recognized him as the captain who had been on duty at the front gate that morning.

“As will I,” another strode forward from the fringes of the crowd.

Northri did not even have time to acknowledge the second before a third said “And I.”

“My hammer is at your service, Prince Kíli!”

“As is my ax!”

“And you’ll need my shield if you’re taking those two along!”

Someone shouted from the middle of the gathered dwarves, “It is high time someone pushed Bolg out of his pretty little nest!”

And was swiftly answered, “Lord Northri said _rescue_ , Hagan, not mayhem!”

Laughter erupted from within the crowd even as more and more stepped forward, shouts carrying back and forth throughout the bustling hall. Overwhelmed, Kíli turned to Northri, desperately searching his mind for the appropriate words of thanks. He could find none, however, but his expression must have conveyed the majority of what he was feeling, for Northri smiled and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“There you go, lad,” he said. “You have your army. Now go get those companions of yours so we can figure out just how we’re going to bring that orc wretch down a few pegs.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

After the initial awkwardness of introductions was over they gathered in Northri’s war room, a large, oval chamber with a table of the same shape placed in its middle and high-backed seats set all around. The Lord of Nordinbad had numerous maps spread out across the stone surface, but it was only upon one that all eyes were focussed.

“There are three entrances into Gundabad we know for a fact are unguarded,” Northri told them, indicating each on the sketches he had pulled forth from Nordinbad’s library. “Paths that lead from beneath Nordinbad across the distance between and directly into Gundabad’s heart. I made certain such entrances were sealed when we moved back here, to prevent orcs entering our home, but they will be easy enough to open.”

“What of the other entrances?” Kíli queried, leaning across the table with his weight on his good arm to see better. Bilbo had insisted on him replacing the sling the moment the hobbit was inside of Nordinbad, and though he had called the Halfling a mother-hen for his worrying he was grateful to no longer feel the painful strain of his abused and torn muscles. “You spoke of using them as well.”

“That is where we shall go, to draw their line of sight,” Northri explained. "Gorin and I will take the majority of our warriors and storm two of the entrances that are only lightly guarded. They will not expect an attack in their own keep, and with any luck they will panic. If we can draw the majority of their sentries to the south-eastern side of the mountain you will find it easier to break in through the north tunnels.”

“If it is panic you are aiming for, then I shall aid with the distraction,” Beorn spoke when the Lord of Nordinbad fell silent. “They have already tasted my wrath once, I doubt they shall be in any great hurry to do the same again.”

“Nordri and Bain have volunteered to act as your guides through the tunnels,” continued Northri, after a respectful nod at the skinchanger. "Bain has been beneath Gundabad before, and has at least a loose sense of direction. I must warn you, though, Prince Kíli, that what time we can buy you may be brief. I am willing to aid you in this endeavour, but I will only go so far, and I will not needlessly endanger the lives of my people.”

“I would not ask you to,” Kíli responded quickly. “Truly, what aid you have given is more than enough. I did not expect even this much.”

“And I have more left to offer,” Northri replied. “My wife would kill me herself if I allowed you to walk into battle as you are, without any form of protection. Go find Runa in the armoury. She will see to it you are suitably attired.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bilbo said, leaping to his feet, barely giving Kíli time to repeat his sincere thanks as he made for the door.

Outside what had been quiet halls were now bustling with life in the hectic mayhem that was battle’s precursor, and both Kíli and Bilbo carefully hugged the walls as they trod the passageways of Nordinbad to avoid being jostled. By comparison the armoury was still and quiet, which meant it did not take Runa at all long to spot them.

“That will not do,” she said disapprovingly, eyeing the sling in which Kíli’s arm rested. “Take that lot off and I’ll rebind it for you. We do not need to give the enemy any weakness to aim for.”

Kíli obediently did as he was told, allowing the Lady of Nordinbad to restrap his shoulder, giving the weakened joint and limb support without the need for the more obvious bandage. With that done Runa set to work on finding him a suitable coat of armour, something he had neglected to pack in his haste to depart from Erebor.

“The chainmail is too heavy for that shoulder to bear,” she muttered to herself, moving amongst the stores of war with the air of one fully at home with her surrounds. “And the leather is too light for my liking, but perhaps a combination of the two…”

She settled at last upon a leather jerkin lined with light, metal plates across the torso and back. It was of a decent strength and weight, but not so much as to put pressure on his injury.

“A mithril coat would have served you best,” she sighed, still not entirely satisfied as she stepped back to look him up and down from head to toe. “But I fear those are a treasure we here do not possess. Still, if you are as careful as you ought to be this will at least turn a wayward blade.” Turning away again she removed a familiar bundle from a nearby rack, offering it to him with a smile. “Your own weapons are better forged than most I have here, though how you will wield them with that arm I do not know.”

“I have two hands,” Kíli offered, accepting his arms and slinging them over his shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his quiver and bow settle against his back.

“And which do you normally use to fight?” Runa asked perceptively. “Of all those who have volunteered for this mission, you are the one who should not be going, but, if you are anything like your mother, you do not know the meaning of the word ‘no’. Now, then.” Clapping her hands together Runa turned to face Bilbo, who had been watching the proceedings like a hawk. “What are we to do for you, Master Baggins?”

She ignored the hobbit’s protests that Sting and the mail Thorin had gifted him beneath Erebor was more than enough, dragging him away to furnish him with throwing knives and other projectiles small enough to be secreted away in the halfling’s coat. Kíli took the time to adjust his weapons so that they hung over his left shoulder instead of his right, wondering how many seconds he would lose when he went for the wrong side when drawing his blade. The pair were only gone for a few moments, and by that time Bilbo was ready to leave, muttering under his breath about dwarves and their obsession with over arming themselves. Kíli grinned, turning to follow his disgruntled companion, but halted when Runa place a restraining hand on his arm.

“Whatever you see down there,” she said solemnly. “Whatever happens, remember that you still have a mother who needs you, who will have nothing should you fall.”

Kíli nodded. “I will be careful,” he promised.

But Runa only smiled.

“No, you will not,” she said, and ushered him from the room.

 


	16. In the Dark Places

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 16**

**_ In the Dark Places _ **

 

Gundabad was the oldest of the dwarf kingdoms in Middle Earth. It was older than the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin, older than the great delvings of Moria beneath the Misty Mountains, older than the many halls that lay abandoned by the hands that had built them in Ered Mithrin, and older, by many, many years than Erebor. It was beneath Gundabad that Durin the Deathless had first gathered all of Durin’s Folk into one people, and there, also, that the seven kingdoms had been founded one by one. It had stood for more than a short glimpse of time’s passage, and the ages through which it had lasted were evidenced in the crumbling edges and unsound stone that would have been tended long ago had Durin’s Folk still dwelt beneath the mountain. Orcs had no care for such details, however, which made the journey through Gundabad’s ancient halls incredibly perilous.

It was not so great a danger for Nordri, Bain, and Kíli himself, the former two having lived beneath a mountain for the majority of their lives, and, though the dwellings in Ered Luin lay above ground, Kíli had been in the mines often enough to know the dangers. All three of them were also gifted with the underground sight of their race, an added advantage their halfling companion did not have. Gandalf did not either, of course, but the wizard seemed to be managing well enough, so it was beside Bilbo that Kíli chose to walk as Bain led them upwards from the depths below.

The air around them was strangely thick as they moved, the eerie silence making every scuffled footfall sound as a thundering drumbeat that would surely give them away, though it also gave them the assurance of being able to hear their enemy coming. But there was no sound besides that they themselves made, and Kíli found his thoughts drifting to Northri and Beorn, who were even now fighting on the other side of the mountain, buying them this one chance they could ill afford to waste. All his efforts had led to this point. Every moment where he had pulled on lessons only half heeded in his youth. Every plea and demand he had done his best to wrap in cloths that would make others heed them. Every shred of stubbornness he had drawn on to bring himself this far in defiance to his own limitations, and yet now that he was _here_ , now that the journey was over and the road’s end in sight he found himself utterly and completely _terrified_.

It had begun in the tunnels the moment they left Nordinbad, the moment it finally sunk in that he had been successful, and that this was all truly happening, and the closer they drew to Gundabad the worse the twisting, writhing creature that was his fear became. Kíli had come all this way, against the advice of most of his companions, against his duties, against every shred of common sense and every experience gleaned from the past, all for this moment. For the brief second of time when he would know the truth. When he would learn whether or not he had been right to hope, or wrong to believe. It had been easy not to think of the other possibilities whilst he was on the road. Whilst every thought was turned to speed and the knowledge that what he did not wish to be a reality could become it if he was not swift enough. Now, though, now he had to face that chance, made all the more irrefutable by the fact Northri may never have aided him had he expressed even the slightest doubt Thorin and Fíli were alive. He had told the Lord of Nordinbad they had been taken, as though he _knew_ , and now he was soon to find out whether those words had been truth or not.

Bain raised his hand before him, and Kíli came to a halt, one hand on Bilbo’s arm ensuring the hobbit slowed with him.

“What is it?” he asked, voice hushed, but the echoes catching every sound regardless.

“We are just above the first level of delvings,” Bain replied quietly. “You may expect to find orcs and goblins about from here on, and wargs also, if we are unlucky. Lord Northri may have been able to draw some away, but Gundabad will not be empty by any means.”

“Then we must proceed with the utmost caution,” Gandalf spoke up from the rear of their small party. “Where to from here, Captain?”

Bain paused for a moment in thought, then answered, “If Bolg has kept to the conceited pride of his kind we will no doubt find him in the old throne room.”

“And where does that lie?” Kíli inquired, trying to get his bearings. They were relying on Bain as their guide, but there was a chance they could all be separated long before they reached their goal.

“In the very middle of the mountain,” Bain said immediately. “Most pathways lead their eventually, it is simply a matter of avoiding those that lead to other, less desirable locations first.”

“How do you know they’ll be in the throne room?” He did not need to see Bilbo’s face to know the hobbit was frowning. “Isn’t a dungeon a more likely bet?”

“Orcs are very rarely engaged in an activity that does not involve some form of violence,” Bain told the halfling, sparing not a single detail. “On the rare occasion where they are offered the means of doing so without that violence revolving around each other they are not likely to waste their time by throwing their prisoners in a cage. They have a tireless appetite for blood, Master Hobbit, and they will keep drawing it until its source runs dry.”

The halfling’s uneasy gulp was audible, and Kíli found himself restraining the strong urge to punch Bain in the face. That was his _family_ the captain was speaking of, and whether or not his words were true were irrelevant, because he should have known better than to utter them aloud. Unfortunately, knocking their guide unconscious would be counterproductive, so instead he said, “In that case it would be better if we stopped talking and started moving. Lead on, Bain.”

Bain did so with a brief nod, and Kíli fell into step behind him again, Bilbo at his side and Nordri and Gandalf bringing up the rear. Traveling in the dark always seemed to take longer than their treks above ground, even when the latter was the longer route, and whilst the dizzying, spiralling pathways they followed might not have been as confusing for him as they no doubt were for his burglar friend, Kíli found himself counting the seconds wasted every time a corridor that looked like it should have led straight twisted back and away from their goal. They were already late, with too much time lost in Erebor and on the road, so that every minute spent retracing their steps felt like an eternity. The difference between success and failure.

Between life and death.

He would reflect later that one of them should have been paying more attention than they clearly were, but he was distracted, Bain was focussed on heading them in the right direction, and Nordri was no doubt thinking more of his fast approaching first battle than the dexterity of ancient dwarf stonework. Thus, when a bridge gave out beneath them all, none of them were prepared for it, and they tumbled into the abyss with various shouts of surprise and fear. It was not a straight drop, Mahal be thanked for small mercies, the curve of the walls catching them in their descent and directing them towards a more gentle landing than would otherwise have been possible. But, though the fall was far from a fatal thing, the landing was such that it threatened to bring their foray beneath the mountain to a swift and brutal end.

Kíli had managed to control his fall so that he did not land on his injured side, but the impact was bone-jarring regardless, and he rolled onto his stomach before trying to rise. It was then that he heard the growl, soft and deep, with a decided hint of menace. Lifting his head slowly Kíli found himself staring directly into the glowing eyes of a great warg, bared teeth glinting even in the shadows. With a yelp he threw himself backwards, out of the reach of those snapping jaws, and in that moment realized that the room around him was a writhing, snarling, vicious death trap.

They were in a warg pit, and they had just woken every last one of its inhabitants.

There wasn’t time to draw his sword in the confined space, so he fended off the first warg that came bounding towards him with a solid boot to the snout. It barely slowed the crazed beast down, the entire pack working itself into a slathering frenzy around him. Panic mounting, Kíli rolled out of reach of teeth sharp enough to tear him to shreds and called out for the only one who may be able to free them from this deadly prison.

“Gandalf!”

His response came in a familiar, blinding flash of light, a wind that burst forth from nowhere ripping through the cavern with a savage howl. Momentarily confused, the wargs gave ground with yelps of distress as the light scorched their eyes, and Kíli took the moment to scrabble to his feet even as Gandalf shouted an all too familiar command.

“Run!” he ordered. _“Run_!”

Kíli did not question that command, he merely acted on it, flying forward, diving through the mass of bodies, trying to keep a sense of direction in the whirling chaos around him. One of the beasts swung about as he passed it, knocking him to the ground through the sheer force of the impact, but he turned the fall into a roll and gained his feet before the teeth snapping at his heels could find a home in his flesh. His eyes fixed themselves upon a wide crevice in the wall and his mind named it salvation as he darted across the seeming mile that stood between him and it, twisting his body at the last second and thanking Mahal for the fact he was thin for a dwarf as he barely made it through the space. He lost his balance as the walls released him, his legs sliding out from beneath him to leave him sitting, startled and breathless, on the cold stone, staring up at the raging maw of the warg who had been set upon consuming him for dinner. The huge beast couldn’t hope to fit through the gap he had fled through, but Kíli chose not to stay within its line of sight regardless, climbing quickly to his feet and slowly backing his way along the tunnel until it rounded a corner.

There were no accidents to be found in a dwarf kingdom, and so he was not overly surprised to find a set of stairs stretching before him, leading upwards into the unknown. He hesitated at their foot, aware that none of his companions had followed the same route of escape as he, and equally aware that they may not have even escaped at all. He almost turned around. He almost went back, even knowing there was little he could do no matter what had happened to his fellows, but as he turned a blood curdling scream echoed all around him. The noise was faint, barely audible at all, yet it sliced through him like an ice-cold dagger to the heart regardless, and Kíli froze in place. Silence enshrouded him, broken only by the distant snarling and growling he had just escaped, and he waited, heart pounding in his chest, until that terrible sound of abstract terror and arrant pain seared a path across his ears again.

Thought abandoned him then. Of his companions. Of himself. Of danger, of orcs, of _anything_. Because he knew. He _knew_ that voice and that knowledge drove him up the stairs at a speed that risked him falling and breaking his neck. He did not care for the danger, though. It meant nothing. It _was_ nothing alongside the dread inducing knowledge that that scream – that horrifying, _horrifying_ sound of tortured suffering – had come from his _brother_. The third cry almost broke him, a wail cut suddenly short, and he bit back a sob of his own as he pounded up the last of the steps and almost hurtled to his death over the side of an unexpected drop.

He pulled himself back just in time, breathing wildly, heartbeat a throbbing pound in his ears, and clung to the wall as he tried to anchor himself, eyes darting hither and thither to take in his new surroundings. He was not in the throne room Bain had guessed would be their goal, but instead standing upon a thin ledge that ran around the edge of a cavernous hall in a complete circuit. An archer’s perch, where guardsmen could lurk unseen by those who went about their business below. The room it circled was a large one, though only the very middle of it consisted of space for movement, the rest filled by a series of steps that climbed higher and higher until they reached the cavern’s walls. Seats, his mind recognized slowly, the cruel truth dawning upon him piece by piece.

This was an arena, and Bolg was putting on a show.

He was too high to make out a great deal, the light cast by the torches below throwing confusing shadows amidst the raucous crowd, but he could see enough. He could Bolg striding back and forth before his enraptured audience, a snarling warg trailing at his heels. He could see blood, a darker stain on stone that had probably borne witness to the suffering of many others, and he could see Fíli. He could _see_ Fíli, lying heartbreakingly still, a limp and ragged puppet with his strings not cut but _torn_ , cast on the floor like a discarded toy. The sight froze him in place, his fear a living, monstrous creature inside of him, and he did not move, did not even _breathe_ until Bolg’s harsh voice suddenly sounded over the sickening enthusiasm of the crowd.

“Weak!” was the orc’s condemning pronouncement. “Behold the unbreakable Line of Durin, in ruins at our feet!”

Harsh laughter and cruel cheers answered him, and Kíli did not feel fear in that moment, he felt rage.

Bolg turned, away from the crowd, away from Fíli, and spoke to someone Kíli could not see.

“I do believe,” he said, voice a menacing hiss. “That this one has had enough.”

He did not whirl back to his prey, instead executing a slow turn that betrayed the malice of his intent, and striding with slow, measured steps across the space between. He raised his foot, placing it across Fíli’s neck, then lifted his head to look at his enraptured audience.

“How much do you think it would take?” he asked. “To _snap_ this?”

He was met with a roar of approval, a dozen suggestions on exactly how to do it, and Kíli realized, horror-struck, that he actually _meant_ to. Bolg was going to kill his brother before his very eyes, and Kíli… Kíli couldn’t let it happen. His hands moved of their own accord, all but tearing his bow from his back and seizing an arrow in his hand. He could not hope to draw the string back with his dominant arm, he had not the strength, but maybe… He passed the weapon into his right hand, feeling the foreign weight of the arrow in his left, and, crouching on the lip of the ledge, he gritted his teeth and raised his bow. The pain in his shoulder was an instant response, but Runa had bound the limb well, and, though it shook like a leaf in the wind, his arm held. With fumbling fingers he fitted the arrow to the string with his unpractised left hand, and slowly, carefully, he drew it back. He could not hope to hit a small target at a great distance, not with his arm so unsteady, but he did not need to. All he needed to do was make Bolg _stop_.

The shaft flew, carving a path through the air with a sharp whistle, and stuck harmlessly in Bolg’s shoulder armour, a good few inches above where Kíli had been aiming. It was enough, though. Enough to turn Bolg’s attention away from Fíli, and solely onto himself. Kíli registered little more than the orc's turning head stumbling back from the edge as his shoulder vehemently protested the strain placed upon it, his head spinning as he clutched the wall for balance. The great din that had broken out beneath him sounded far off and distant as he hugged his arm to his chest and tried to remember how to breathe, and it was not until cruel hands gripped him and hauled him away from the wall that he became aware of his surroundings again. By then it was too late to tear himself free from the hold his captors had seized upon him, and he had no choice but to follow along as they dragged him towards the stairs and the doom that awaited below.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

There were thoughts one clung to in the darkness. Comforts, true or empty, that were the only defence one had. Thorin had been prepared to die upon the battlefield, had expected it, even. He had known what it was he marched into when he left the safety of Erebor, or he had thought he knew. Death had seemed a surety, with so many falling all around him, and yet the arrows that had claimed the life of so many of his comrades had not strayed near where he fought, and the cleaving blades that stole life so readily had not come close to him after Azog fell. He had been too blind to realize what that meant until it was too late. When Bolg’s warg pack had formed a tight circle around them, and he had recognized his enemy’s intent even as he could do nothing to stop it.

All orcs were brutal creatures by nature, but it was not their love for bloodshed or their desire for violence that made Azog and Bolg so dangerous, it was their intelligence. Their ability to think beyond the basic restrictions of most of their kind. Their ability to understand others, at least insofar as they needed to to control them, to cause them pain. Thorin had been powerless to struggle against the captors who seized and bound him, not because of his own injuries, though they would doubtlessly have hampered his efforts, but because of the blade Bolg had pressed to his nephew’s throat, still stained by the blood of those who had fallen at its mercy. He had known what fate awaited them should he surrender, he had _known_ that death may well be the better alternative, but… but he had not been able to do it. He had not been able to watch another of his kin slaughtered before his eyes.

He had been a fool to think it would not come to that regardless.

They were not the first of Durin’s line to fall into Bolg’s hands. That misfortune had fallen upon Frerin, and Thorin could still scarcely bear to think of all that had been left of his younger brother when Bolg’s work was done. If Azog’s claim was true, his father had shared the same fate, another of Durin’s Line broken at the hands of those who had sworn to destroy the bloodline itself. But they had been taken alone, Frerin and Thráin. None of their family had been with them, and that… that had been a mercy, for Bolg knew the value dwarves placed upon their kin, and knew also that torture was not a thing reserved entirely for the realm of the physical. Fíli had had a hand in Azog’s death, but it had been Thorin who threw the final blow, and Thorin who took his arm at Moria’s gate. And so it was Thorin Bolg bound in chains and forced to _watch_ as his nephew and heir became the torture master’s prey.

There were thoughts one clung to in the darkness, and Thorin’s had been of Kíli. Of that bright, bright soul he had so terribly wronged in their last days together, and the small mercy that was his youngest nephew being spared this. It was the only comfort to be found in the harsh reality of the present, and it was a terrible, despair-inducing thing to watch Bolg’s lieutenants drag an all too familiar figure across the floor to throw at their cruel master’s feet. Kíli almost hit the ground face first, only just managing to catch himself with one hand, his other arm held tightly against his chest. Thorin noticed with mounting alarm that his youngest nephew seemed scarcely aware of what was happening, eyes focused on his brother’s still and bloody form, the horror in his eyes absolute.

Jerking against the chains holding him in place, Thorin voiced a growl around the filthy rag his captors had used to silence him, earning himself a brief glance from Bolg before the orc captain reached down and snared his clawed fingers in Kíli’s hair. With a vicious jerk he hauled the young dwarf back from where he was trying to crawl towards his brother, forcing him onto his knees, and ripping something from the dark locks with his other hand. Kíli’s eyes lifted with the forced gesture, focusing suddenly on Thorin. The horror of the moment before was gone now, he noted, replaced, not by fear, but a steely, grim determination that had him wondering what foolishness his nephew planned on attempting this time.

“This is a pretty bauble,” Bolg spoke coldly, flipping something silver back and forth between his fingers, then tossing it carelessly at Thorin’s feet. The bound dwarf recognized it instantly as his youngest nephew’s hair clasp, though he was almost certain Bolg’s next words did not pertain to the piece of silver. “Is it yours, Oakenshield?”

Thorin did not answer, he _could_ not, even as he marked a flash of something dark and unwelcome in Kíli’s eyes. He did not know what that look meant, but knew his own gaze was probably just as dark. He was angry, not only at Bolg, but Kíli as well, and it was an anger that sprung forth from fear. What was the foolish boy _doing_ here? Alone, without aid, in the midst of certain death. He was supposed to be safe. The one thing Thorin had managed to do right after Erebor was reclaimed, but instead… Instead he was here, where they would all die together, but not before Bolg had had his full of revenge.

"But of course it is," Bolg continued, voice a snarl, even as he tightened his hold on his newest captive, forcing Kíli’s head back as he grasped the young dwarf’s chin, his nails digging into soft flesh. "There can be no mistaking this one's bloodlines, nor the reckless foolishness that brought him here alone."

Kíli did not respond to the orc’s words, rigidly still, holding himself tensed in a way that did not bode well. Thorin tried to shake his head, tried to catch Kíli’s eyes and silently beg him not to provoke the vicious creature holding him in place, but his nephew was no longer looking at him, his baleful stare focused instead with unflinching steadiness upon his captor.

"This one is younger," the orc spoke again, a barely hidden excitement in his words, a wicked sense of triumph. "I shall enjoy playing with you."

It was in that moment that Kíli acted, and blood was spilt across already stained stone.

 


	17. Justice for the Fallen

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 17**

**_ Justice for the Fallen _ **

 

Bilbo’s first instinct when they landed in the pit of death was to put on his Ring. The tiny golden trinket had saved his life enough times in the past for this to be an entirely sensible course of action, though, of course, being invisible did very little to protect him from the writhing, churning mass of over excited wargs who seemed to think a veritable feast had just fallen headfirst into their home. Crouched on all fours, he scrabbled desperately about the stone floor, trying not to think of the unnameable substances that clung to his hands and knees as he did so, and doing his fervent best not to get trodden on. Kíli’s shout gave him a direction to follow in the mayhem, at least, for, if ever there had been a dwarf with a penchant for getting into potentially fatal situations, it was that one. Although, taking into considering his own close experiences with the young archer’s kinsmen, Bilbo might have to expand that thought to include all his family as well.

If nothing else, the Heirs of Durin seemed an irresistible lure for all the worst kinds of trouble.

Reaching the young prince’s side was a task much more easily attempted than achieved, however, and in the chaos that followed Gandalf’s customary flare of the dramatic Bilbo lost all sense of direction, and somehow found himself tumbling head over heels down some sort of shoot that dropped him unceremoniously onto the cold, stone floor a level below. His first thought then was to climb straight back up again, for he had no desire to be lost down in these dark corridors for the rest of his life, or until one of his companions came to find him, but one look at his means of descent told him there was no way he was going to be able to climb _up_ it, so, resigned, he turned away, giving the four different pathways that now opened up before him a scrutinizing stare. Dwarf kingdoms, he had decided long ago, were built to confuse, and so it was no surprise that none of the four corridors sprang out at him at once as the obvious and wisest choice.  

Unlike that of other members of the Company, however, Bilbo’s luck had held for the duration of this quest, and so he trusted it to save him again as he picked a path at random and hurried along its length. Though he could not see it clearly, he could feel the ground sloping upwards beneath his feet, and took this to mean he had chosen correctly. Quickening his pace for fear he should be left behind – _again_ – he slipped around the corner at the tunnel’s end and abruptly collided with Nordri. The young dwarf gave a startled yelp, backpedalling rapidly as he tried to identify what had crashed into him, and Bilbo hurriedly slipped his ring off and made as though he had just stepped around the corner.

“Master Baggins!” Relief flooding his voice, the blond dwarf gave him what he assumed was a scrutinizing glance, though it was hard to tell in the half-light. “Are you unharmed?”

“By some miracle.” He nodded, adding urgently, “Have you seen any of the others?”

“No.” It was at that point that Bilbo realized his companion sounded more shaken than their simple collision warranted. “But I heard…”

He did not need to go further, because Bilbo heard it himself a moment later. A sound of pain and anguish such as he had never heard before, and never wanted to again. The acoustic quality of the stone around them made the noise resonate, echoed a hundred times, its horror multiplied tenfold, before finally fading away and leaving them in silence.

“I think,” he said, his own voice trembling now a little. “We may be quite close.”

“But do we go on?” Nordri inquired anxiously. “Without Gandalf?”

There was something altogether absurd about a dwarf asking _him_ for advice, but where the Company had considered him far too genteel to be traipsing about the wild, Nordri, who had never left his home, seemed to believe Bilbo an authority on the world and adventures in general. It was rather pleasant not having to risk life and limb to earn a dwarf’s respect, but he didn’t really have the time to appreciate the novelty right now. Not with that awful sound echoing round them both yet again.

“I think we must,” he decided at last, instinctively setting his shoulders and lifting his chin. “We’ve come this far, and if Kíli is anywhere nearby he will have followed that… well, _that_.”

“We may be able to rejoin the others,” Nordri agreed, sounding relieved. “Lead on, then, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo did so, treading with a lot more caution now that he could not so readily use the Ring, Nordri close enough on his heels as to almost be treading on them. There were no more cries to ensure they were heading in the right direction, but the corridor continued to climb steadily until it finally rounded a corner and gave way to a larger chamber. Bilbo stopped then, staring in dismay at the sight that now unfolded before him. There were torches ahead, lit and ready to cast betraying shadows, but it was not the light that made him pause and debate turning back. No, light would have been a welcome reprieve at this point, had it not come with a pack of orcs and goblins attached.

The noise emanating from the chamber before him was almost deafening, but Bilbo did not turn back, for the last time he had heard such a ruckus had been back in Goblin Town as his friends were dragged away and he was overlooked and left behind. It was that knowledge that pulled him onwards, that bid him motion for Nordri to stay in the tunnel as he himself slipped beneath the stone arch and dared to tread the narrow corridor that parted the masses until he could see beyond them, to what had so captured their fancy. Bain’s words came flooding back to him the moment he realized exactly what it was he had stumbled into, the cold knowledge that the captain had not been exaggerating sinking into his very bones. This was… This was… It was _indescribable_ , a sight he wished he had never seen, but one he doubted he would ever be able to banish from his memory. The battlefield outside Erebor had been bad enough, a nightmare that had haunted him for many nights afterwards, but this was worse somehow.

Worse because this was not a fight for survival such as that had been, this was _sport_.

He moved forward to the edge of the protective shadows before he was even quite aware of what he was doing, just knowing that _something_ had to be done. He watched, senses numbed and thoughts still scattered, as Bolg staggered back, Fíli forgotten as he wrenched a barbed arrow from his armour. He saw, dread carving itself a hollow in his stomach, the goblins that swarmed up the walls with the skill only their kind possessed for mounting sheer rock. He witnessed them dragging a figure that could be none other than Kíli down the stairs and passing the young dwarf into the charge of Bolg’s followers, who in turn delivered their captive to their master. He waited through it all, somehow still wildly hoping that Gandalf would appear to save the day yet again, or even some of the other dwarves, but as Bolg taunted Thorin and Kíli alike it slowly dawned upon the hobbit that no one else was coming.

And then Kíli did something very, very _stupid_.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

Kíli barely heard the exchange Bolg had with his uncle, despite the fact he was fairly certain it revolved largely around himself. The words were inaudible to him, drowned out by the roar in his ears that had only grown louder when he set eyes on his brother at a distance close enough to assess those of his injuries that were visible, and they were many. The rage he had felt on the wall had not abated with his pain and capture, if anything it had multiplied, lurking now as a rampaging inferno threatening to burn him from the inside out. He had never felt such a loathing as he did for the orc holding him upright by his hair, and the desire to drive cold steel through the foul creature’s heart was too great a temptation to resist.

He could not reach Bolg’s heart from on his knees, but what he could reach was the knife hanging off the orc’s belt, and with Bolg’s attention elsewhere it was a simple thing to slip the knife free and then drive it with all the force he could muster through the gap in the orc captain’s armour. The force with which he drove the jagged instrument through flesh was enough to make the orc captain stagger back, his hold on Kíli lost, granting him a short reprieve. He had but a moment, then, a second where surprise was on his side, and he used it to swing about, wrenching his own sword from where Bolg’s lieutenants had so carelessly tossed his weapons, and turning back in time to face whatever retribution Bolg was ready to dish out. He had forgotten in his rage the warg that had been trailing at the orc’s heels, the same warg that was surely responsible for at least a small portion of his brother’s injuries, and which now tried to inflict the same fate upon him.

It came at him with a vicious snarl, leaping with every intent of tearing him to shreds. He managed to raise his sword just in time, the steel catching between the warg’s teeth, so that Kíli crashed to the floor on his back, both hands braced against the weapon in a desperate attempt to fend off all but certain death. His shoulder was positively screaming at him now, his vision whiting out around the edges, and it was with the rare strength brought on by death’s imminent approach that Kíli slammed his knee into the beast’s chin. The warg’s head jerked up away from the impact, Kíli’s blade sliding free of the teeth that had enclosed it, and the archer rolled swiftly out from beneath its feet only to have his sword kicked from his hand as he made it to his knees.

He wavered then, over balanced, and would have fallen on his back had strong fingers not closed about his throat and lifted him bodily off the floor. It was his confrontation with Azog all over again, nothing but air beneath his feet, legs kicking empty space, one hand clawing at Bolg’s arm with no hope of loosening his hold. But he did not have a dagger to drive through his captor’s hand this time, and Bolg had absolutely no intention of letting him go.

“Perhaps,” the orc growled, anger now residing in every harsh syllable as he tightened his hold until Kíli wasn’t just struggling to breathe, he was _choking_. “It is _your_ neck I should break.”

Kíli was weakening, he could already feel consciousness slipping away from him, the world growing smaller and smaller as his lungs begged for a reprieve and his body shut down when none was offered. He was on the verge of the abyss when Bolg jerked suddenly, opening his hand and letting Kíli fall back to the floor. The young dwarf landed on his side and lay there gasping, each breath a desperate wheeze, even as his eyes struggled to focus on the small barb Bolg tore from his arm with a snarl. It was akin to an arrow, but far too small to have been fired from a regular bow, and with a new fear rising within him Kíli turned in the direction of the entrance to see Nordri standing squarely beneath the stone arch, already moving to reload his crossbow, though it would do him little good against the small army now rising in anger at the wound inflicted upon their leader.

“Nordri,” the name escaped him as a croak, but he mustered strength enough to make his next words a shout. “Go, Nordri! Run!”

The blond dwarf didn’t question his order, which was a first, he reflected, even as he watched Northri’s grandson bolt from the room, a small troop of goblins flying in pursuit. Bolg, for his part, ignored Nordri’s escape, along with the majority of his audience, turning instead to deliver a savage kick to Kíli’s midsection that earned him a rousing applause.

“Did you think you could escape, you _fool_?” he demanded, driving his spiked boot into Kíli’s torso a second time. Biting back a cry of pain Kíli rolled away, trying to put enough distance between himself and Bolg to buy himself the time he needed to regain his feet. “This is _my_ domain, dwarf! _My_ kingdom. There is no escape from these walls. No escape from the nightmare that is now yours. You should never have come here. There is no rescue from Gundabad. There is only death, and the torment that precedes it. And yours…” Reaching down, Bolg seized his hair again, hauling him upright by the same method he had used before so he could snarl his last words right in Kíli’s face. “Yours shall be a slow one.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

_Kíli, you reckless, little fool…_

Thorin had already thrown himself against the chains binding him enough times to know he could not break them. The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw to the point his hands were now slick with blood during his efforts to free himself when Bolg had first thrown Fíli into that ring and then unleashed a _warg_ on the lad, but that did not stop him from trying again as he watched his youngest nephew slowly being throttled for the second time. But he could not free himself, he was helpless, _powerless_ , and that was an agony that could not be described, another promise he could not keep, and for the breaking of which he silently begged forgiveness from his absent sister.

_I am sorry, Dís. I could not protect them_.

He did not know who Nordri was, nor what business he had firing on Bolg, but he sent silent gratitude after Kíli’s fleeing rescuer for buying him the time to…

_To what_?

He demanded of himself, and knew he did not have an answer. There was nothing he could do. Nothing that he had not tried to stop this. If only Kíli had not come. If only he had realized earlier Bolg’s purpose. If only he had managed to orchestrate a successful escape before their captor had brought them here. But he had tried once, and Fíli had suffered for that attempt. Suffered dearly.

_And he is still suffering now_.

Fingers touched the knot at the back of his head, loosening the gag, and Thorin almost started out of his skin, lurching as far away from his unseen assailant as the chains would allow even as the dirty rag that had been used to silence him fell away. He swung his head on his shoulders, eyes searching wildly for the source of the phantom touch, but could still see nothing.

“It’s me!” a voice hissed near his ear, and Thorin froze in absolute disbelief.

_It could not be…_

“Bilbo?”

“Yes!”

But why? Why would Bilbo be _here_? What possible reason…

“Now, hold steady. Sting might be sharp, but it’s not made for cutting through chains. I’m going to have to lever these.”

Thorin’s eyes flitted back to the arena floor, where Bolg was taking his anger out on a helpless Kíli as his youngest nephew did his best to roll out of range of the orc’s petty vengeance.

“Master Baggins…”

“I know, I know. I’m hurrying!”

There was a sharp snap, and the chain on his right hand came away from the floor, the shackle and links still hanging from his arm. Thorin quickly twisted the half-numb limb, gathering the chain in his hand as the only weapon he was likely to have available to him.

“Here.” Bilbo proved that assumption wrong by shoving a knife into his hands. It was little more than a dagger, but it was far better than nothing. “Hold still.”

He did so, even though there was a part of him that wanted to leap into the fray right now, remaining shackle be damned. Bolg had Kíli on his knees again, and was snarling something in his nephew’s face, undaunted by the raw, unbridled hatred in Kíli’s eyes. And that was a foreign thing Thorin had never wanted to see on his nephew’s face, though he could well understand where it had sprung from. The last chain fell away with a distinctive clank, and Thorin surged to his feet, only to almost hit the floor again as his weakened limbs betrayed him.

“Steady!” Bilbo chided, unseen hands holding him in place. “I need at least one of you on your feet if this is going to work.”

“You have a plan, then?” That was a relief, for Thorin had nothing. No way of getting them all out of here alive. He was barely keeping himself upright, too many days with nothing but that foul orc brew for sustenance taking its toll.

“Well, not really.” And there went that hope. “But I’m sure Gandalf will show up eventually.”

And in the meantime, Bolg would torture Kíli as surely as he had Fíli, unless Thorin did something that no one, not even himself, would deem wise. But the Line of Durin had never made any claim to great wisdom, and so, shrugging off the hobbit’s persistent hold, Thorin took a step forward.

“Bolg!”

All eyes in the room instantly turned away from the spectacle in the arena to Thorin’s own corner of the room, a ripple of shock surging through the crowd at the sudden realization their prize prisoner was standing free, if a little unsteadily, in their midst. Thorin ignored those lurking on the fringes, however, keeping his eyes only on Bolg. The orc captain had full control of his troop, and not one of those in the room would move without his say so. Right now the torture master was understandably confused, his eyes drifting from the broken chains to Thorin in a quick glance that gave away what he was trying not to show.

“What do you plan to do, Oakenshield?” he demanded, drawing forth the self-same dagger Kíli had used to impale him and holding it to the young dwarf’s neck in exact same way as he had held Fíli back on the battlefield, where Thorin had made his first mistake. He could not afford to make another now. “You will not end my life with that needle in your hands. In fact you would die before you took a step forward. Or _they_ would.”

“You will not touch either of them again.” He took a single stride forward to press his point, silently thanking Mahal for the fact it did not end with him flat on his face. Bolg had not touched him after taking him captive, but Thorin had not gone unwounded onto the battlefield, and those wounds had not been tended in any but the loosest sense.

Bolg laughed outright at his gesture of defiance, still confident he was in control. “Are you going to make me? I already told you, Thorin Oakenshield, you are in my lands now, and there is no way out.”

His words this time were punctuated by a sharp and sudden yelp of pain, and Thorin watched, unsurprised, as Bolg’s favoured pet fell to the ground, a knife having been slammed through its forehead directly between the eyes.

_And Master Baggins proves his worth once more._

“Maybe you should check your gates more often, then,” Bilbo said blandly, suddenly visible, and himself the centre of attention as the confusion and unease in the air around them began to grow. “If it is this easy to walk in, I imagine it is just as easy to walk out again.”

“Seize him!”

Bolg was more than angry now, he was enraged, and even as his minions hastened to obey him the orc captain turned away from the halfling, away from Thorin, away from Kíli, whom he tossed back to the floor with a violent surge of his arm, and to the one person who had absolutely no means of defending himself. Fíli still had not moved, and the look on Bolg’s face plainly spelled out his intention of making sure Thorin’s heir never moved again. Kíli scrambled to his feet, wavering, unsteady, and surely knowing he could not hope to cross the distance in time, no more than Thorin, darting forward now as a raged denial escaped his lips, could.

But Kíli was not the fool Bolg had believed him to be, nor even as reckless as Thorin had thought him, for he had not come alone.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

There was no race in Middle Earth that had any love for orcs and their ilk. Not even the orcs themselves could stand one another, their violence turned as often on each other as it was upon their enemies. They were an abomination, something once good twisted to evil and irredeemable now in their wicked nature, a festering wound that had been left too long to heal. Dwarves, elves, and men alike had good reason to hate them and their kind. All had suffered pain at their hands. Had lost lands, livelihoods, and loved ones. But no wrongs committed against those three peoples were so great as those Azog and his wretched offspring had perpetrated against the skinchangers. It was not only their lands that had been stolen, nor was it their livelihoods, nor even their loved ones. Azog and Bolg had destroyed the skinchangers themselves, an entire people all but wiped out, and made to suffer every agony possible before the end came. The hatred Beorn felt against them and their kind was an entity onto itself, and there was no being on Middle Earth, no creature, no elf, man, or even dwarf who he would not have aided when they asked his help in destroying his most abhorred enemy.

Kíli had not asked, but Gandalf had, and Beorn had been unable to refuse what was not so much a request for aid as an opportunity to exact a vengeance long awaited.

The opposition Northri’s forces might have encountered at the main gate had already been slimmed by the battle at Erebor, and further still by their belief they were safe here, in their home. But when they saw Beorn bearing down upon them at the head of a small army of dwarves, who had wisely and warily chosen to keep their distance from the great, black bear in their midst, most of the enemy ran screaming. He had clearly left a deeply engraved memory upon them at their last encounter, and it was an image he meant to cement irremovably upon their kind now. Any who did not move out of his path were crushed or torn asunder, the skinchanger effortlessly carving a path for his allies to follow.

By Northri’s decree those taking part in the battle on this side of the mountain were not supposed to venture too far within Gundabad, providing only a distraction, and not risking a true battle. It was, Beorn knew, a sign that the Lord of Nordinbad was as much a dwarf as his kin elsewhere in Middle Earth, save that the treasure he hoarded was his people, as opposed to actual gold. Bolg was not lurking amongst those on guard duty, so Beorn did not stop in the first halls, charging onwards, deeper and deeper into the mountain. Those behind him hesitated, briefly indecisive, then followed, sweeping through Gundabad at a speed that outright defied the crumbling architecture around them.

He may not have been a dwarf, but Beorn had been born beneath the mountains before Azog claimed them for his own, and where the dwarves relied on their faltering knowledge of their ancient halls Beorn followed his senses, honed and trained to follow a trail where no other could find one, and to pick out one scent amongst many. This was a hunt to the skinchanger, a wound that had stood open too long, and which he intended to close on this day. His fallen kin would know justice, and Bolg would know death.

Beorn sped through Gundabad’s aging corridors with the dwarves at his back, all who did not fall to his teeth and claws claimed instead by the blades of those who followed. They slew as many as they came across, and still there was no sign of Bolg, nor of the small army that had surely survived alongside their leader. The resistance they had met thus far was a trivial thing, and Beorn pressed onwards with even greater haste, determined that Bolg should not escape the sentence that awaited him. The wretch would not flee his reckoning a second time.

They happened across Bain not long after Beorn hurled three wargs over the edge into the abyss with a single swipe, the captain wounded, though not badly, and gabbling explanations when pressed by his lord as to the whereabouts of the rest of his party. Beorn did not wait to hear the dwarf’s answer, the scent of his enemy clear enough he could have followed it had he only half the skill he possessed. He left Northri and his men well behind him, and almost ran down the young dwarf he encountered fleeing in the tunnels, easily decimating the squabbling pack of goblins that had been at the dwarf’s heels. They were nothing more than irritants to him now, an obstacle, and Beorn would not be obstructed. He burst into the larger chamber with a roar that shook it to its very foundations, and did not give his enemy a chance to do more than stare in horror as he leapt over the heads of those between he and his prey.

Azog had not dared to challenge him.

Bolg was not given a choice.

 

 


	18. Fate Plays a Fickle Hand

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 18**

**_ Fate Plays a Fickle Hand _ **

 

 

Grark was old for a goblin. ‘Long-lived’ his fellows called him, though less than half of them actually knew what that word meant, and half the half that thought they knew didn’t really. Oh, he did not possess the near immortal years of his greater cousins, the orcs, but he had seen things. Knew things. _Read_ things, which was a lot more than you could say for most of his squabbling brethren. Grark was the goblin who went through the belongings of those unfortunate enough to rest upon the Goblin King’s doorstep and took, not swords or shiny trinkets, but books and maps and the knowledge contained inside them. Grark was the goblin who watched the others chase thirteen dwarves and a wizard through a kingdom only so long as they remained in his line of sight, then turned his gaze back to his latest acquisition, uninterested in the outcome of the fight. Grark was the goblin who hung back, suspicious, when Azog the Defiler returned to Gundabad and summoned a meeting for the first time in too many years to bother counting. Grark was the goblin who sat down and cited his age as reason enough not to join in the rushed march beneath the mountains to the wastelands north of The Lonely Mountain, and felt no surprise when Bolg returned without his father, defeated despite the prisoners he prized so greatly, and in a fearful rage.

Truthfully speaking, he would have preferred it had Bolg not come back at all.

Grark was wise enough not to say so aloud, however, and wise enough also to keep to his high perches as the mighty bear rampaged through Gundabad’s halls. Instead he simply watched, beady eyes bright, as the skinchanger raced onwards and inwards, a motley bunch of armed dwarves at his heels, all armed to the teeth. Bolg was in for a surprise, and Grark felt no regret over not sounding warning when he may well be the only one who had seen the beast and still held onto his life. Bolg had brought this down upon himself, and Grark would say nothing more than good riddance once he was dead. But, whilst the torture master’s death would be reason for celebration for the old goblin, Grark was not at all pleased by the thought of dwarves attempting a return to the mountain. Those wretched, burrowing creatures clearly thought that one mountain reclaimed meant all others were open to them, but Gundabad was a second home to the goblins of the Misty Mountains, and a stronghold for all of their ilk, and Grark was not quite so ready to surrender this part of a greater kingdom he may yet wheedle his way into ruling.

With such thoughts in mind the aged goblin waited until all intruders had passed him by, then crawled his way down from the ledge on which he had taken refuge, leaping from rock to rock with an agility that belied his age as he made his way down past the upper levels into the depths. The march from Gundabad had been committed to with great haste, and carried out with the same. Those taking part had needed to travel with speed, racing through underground corridors at a great pace for days on end. That was why Azog had chosen to rely on numbers over brute strength, trusting that a force superior in size would grant him an easy victory, and leaving behind those that would have slowed him down. It was for this reason that the war trolls of Gundabad still resided beneath the mountain’s feet, and the cause of the full warg pens, only Bolg’s favoured pack taken on the journey to battle.

Most goblins would not have known what to do with this knowledge. But Grark was old, old and cunning, and he loped up to the first goblin he found on the lower levels, passing on words that would soon spread like wildfire through the depths.

“The enemy is here,” he hissed. “The enemy is here! Cut the ropes! Let them loose! Wake them up! Open the doors!”  

Onwards he went, speaking the same message to all he came across, until the chant could be heard throughout Gundabad’s lower halls.

“The enemy is here!” the cry sounded. “The enemy is here!”

“Cut the ropes!”

“Let them loose!”

“Wake them up!”

“Open the doors!”

And the final line, that which Grark had not spoken, but which brought a feral smile to his wizened face regardless.

“ _Kill_ the dwarves!”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Lives could change in a split second. An instant was all it took. A moment of inattention. One wrong step, or a dozen leading to a single ending. Fate was a fickle thing, ever ready to deliver death where it was least expected, and life where life had no right to flourish. Thorin knew he should not have survived the war. After all he had done, how far he had fallen, death should have been his sentence. The same penalty he had thought to apply to his younger nephew, and would have, had others not stood in the way. He had been granted a reprieve where none was earned, and the price for that, the sum forfeit in repayment for every breath he drew, was laid out before him now in the terrible sight of Bolg standing with his arms raised above his head, the tip of his blade hovering directly over Fíli's heart. Kíli was already screaming his brother's name, his voice desolate and filled with horror, but his cry, piercing as it was, was drowned out completely by a mighty roar that had not been heard beneath mountain stone for eons.

Fate could change in an instant, and it turned now against Bolg and his ilk, offering the Line of Durin luck it had not seen for many a long year. The orc captain turned, but he had no hope of escaping, nor of directing his blade in a way that might wound his assailant. Beorn struck the torture master with all the force of a mountain avalanche, the snap of bone an audible thing as his momentum carried both he and his chosen prey to the ground. Bolg's cry of outrage ended when his neck broke before he had even hit the floor, and Beorn turned to face the horrified onlookers as he let out another savage roar. The crowd scattered, fleeing for the nearest exit, though some dared to stay on the ledge above, firing on the skinchanger from the comparative safety of the height. This only antagonized the mighty bear more, and, with a snarl of rage, he dove up the steps and into the enemy's midst.

All this took only seconds, a death far swifter and cleaner than Bolg deserved, and Kíli had not wasted a single portion of that time. Thorin’s youngest nephew was already kneeling by his brother's side, desperately trying to wake the unconscious dwarf whilst Bilbo, face drawn and pale, cut away the cloth obstructing any view of the worst injury Fíli had sustained during their captivity; The warg bite that had torn flesh and crushed bone as the cursed creature used its hold on the young dwarf’s leg to swing him about like a dog's plaything, before dropping him on the ground like a piece of rejected meat. Thorin could still hear his nephew's screams, an echo in the back of his mind that would not soon fade, and so he knew what he would see when he reached them.

That did not make him any more prepared for the sight.

The limb had been all but mutilated, deep tears that ran right to fractured bone still leeching blood, the precious, crimson fluid masking the damage at the same time as it announced its severity. Kíli’s gaze had already taken in the extent of his brother’s injuries, and returned now to Fíli’s battered face.

“No.” It was denial and plea both. _“No_.” Kíli reached out and seized his elder sibling by the shoulders, giving him a fierce shake. “Don’t you dare! You can’t do this to me, Fíli. Not now. Wake up. _Wake up_!”

Fíli’s head rolled loosely on his shoulders but his eyes did not open, leaving Kíli crouched at his side, his hands fisted in the rags that were all that was left of his brother’s tunic, a lost expression on his face.

“No,” he whispered again. “No, _please_ …”

“Kíli,” Bilbo said haltingly, hands hovering, but not daring to touch, uncertainty on his expressive features. “I don’t know how to…”

An arrow skittered across stone mere inches from where the halfling was kneeling. Kíli’s head shot up at the same time as Thorin’s did, marking the trajectory of the next barb too late to do anything to stop it. It would surely have impaled the eldest heir of Durin had a hand not seized him and hauled him back a step, a shield thrust between him and the shaft so that the arrowhead struck the reinforced wood with a dull ‘thud’. It was with shock that he recognized his rescuer, the name escaping his lips in hoarse surprise.

“Northri?”

“I would say well met, cousin, but now is hardly the time for friendly greetings.” Northri had only to nod and his shieldsmen were forming up around them, creating a physical barrier around the fallen prince and his kinsmen as the rest of their comrades set to driving those of the enemy who had dared to stay into a full retreat. Northri left them to their task, striding forward until he stood above the two brothers, his eyes falling upon Fíli as grimness overtook his features.

“Captain!” he called over his shoulder. “You are needed.”  

The warrior in question took only seconds to appear, a younger, blond dwarf at his side, neither needing any further direction from Northri as to where their attention should be focused. Thorin stared at the elder of the two newcomers in shock, for here was another face he had never thought to see again.

“Bain?”

“It has been a long time, Thorin,” Bain replied without looking up from his work, an art he remained just as skilled at as he had proven to be in the wake of dragon fire and the death that had followed it. "Would that this reunion had been under better circumstances.” Tying off the end of one bandage, Bain extended a hand to the dwarf acting as his assistant, if a rather pale-faced one. "Nordri, pass me another dressing, lad.”

“But…” Now was not the time for questions, he knew, but they escaped his lips regardless, confusion and exhaustion disarming his usually guarded tongue. “How?”

“Prince Kíli is an eloquent petitioner,” Northri answered him, and Thorin’s eyes flickered to where his younger nephew had drawn his brother’s head into his lap, eyes closely watching every movement Bain made. “He made a plea we could not refuse, not whilst still retaining our honour.”

It was a day for the unexpected, it seemed, and Thorin honestly did not know what to feel. Relief was stymied by the severity of Fíli’s wounds, and yet he could not be ungrateful that rescue had come, nor could he quite comprehend the unexpected individuals who had borne it. Kíli he could understand, for, even if the young dwarf would not risk so very much for his sake, Thorin knew the lengths either brother would go to for the sake of the other. Bilbo’s presence had been a surprise. After the way he had treated the hobbit, he would have thought the Company’s burglar glad to see him gone. Beorn’s involvement he did not understand at all. But for Northri and Bain to have come also, with an army at their backs…

“I thought you dead,” he said aloud.

“Not yet.” Northri was tense, despite the easing conflict around them as the last of their foes fled before death could grasp them, and Thorin frowned, wondering what danger had not yet been realized. “But there is time yet for that to change.” Turning away from Thorin he addressed his trusted friend, “Bain, how is he?”

“Where there is life there is hope,” the captain told him, meeting Kíli’s frightened gaze as he said gently, “And your brother draws breath yet.” He looked to Northri again, then, adding, “But he needs more supplies than I have here, and better trained hands if he ever wishes to walk again.”

Walking again was the least of Fíli’s worries at present, Thorin knew, but the words had been phrased as they were for Kíli’s sake, and he would not gainsay them.

“Then go,” Northri commanded, accepting the sword that was passed to him by one of his men and pressing it upon Thorin. "We shall guard your retreat.”

He had scarcely finished speaking before a low, deep drumbeat sounded all around them, reverberating up through the stone in a rhythm no dwarf who had ever heard the war song of the orcs could have mistaken.

“What was that?” Bilbo asked uneasily as the noise faded, only to sound again before the last echo had truly faded.

Beorn answered the hobbit’s words with a fierce growl, his eyes narrowed, emphasizing the scars that ran across his snout, but it was Northri who offered a verbal response.

“That was the end of our reprieve,” the dwarf stated, tightening his grasp on the blade in his hands. “We must move, and swiftly.”

As if in answer to his words another noise joined the quickening beat of danger. A far off baying, distant, yet growing nearer, until the chorus of howling voices was unmistakable. Bain’s head came up the moment the sound began, alarm showing clearly in his eyes.

“They’ve set the packs loose!” he exclaimed in horror.

“And worse things will not be far behind,” Northri agreed. “Come, we must make haste!”

Bain nodded curtly, swiftly moving to gather Fíli’s limp frame in his arms. Thorin started forward, ready to help, but Bain did not so much as stumble under the elder prince’s weight, a walking example of the sturdiness of his race. Kíli remained on the floor only as long as it took to retrieve his own blade from where Bolg had thrown it, and then he was standing alongside Bain and Nordri, that same look of set determination on his face.

He would need it, Thorin knew. They all would, if they hoped to make it out of here alive.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

                   

Bilbo had not been present for the flight through Goblin Town during which the Goblin King had been slain and the eternal wrath of his followers earned, but he had heard the tale enough times around the campfire, recited by the Company’s youngest members in an effort to wheedle his own tale of escape from him, to know that Gundabad was far more of a death trap than the Misty Mountains had ever been. He had never thought that he would learn to recognize the particular cry of a hunting warg pack that had picked up a scent, but clearly the knowledge had been absorbed at some point on his journey, for he recognized the distinct change in the noise all around them just as soon as everyone else did, and did his best to keep up as a pace that had already been hurried all but doubled.

Northri had split his forces the moment they were out of the arena, taking a third for himself, and sending the rest with Gorin and Galar down different pathways to try and distract their enemy, and perhaps divide some of the superior numbers that were being gained over them. Beorn had wordlessly placed himself at the head of Northri’s party, forging a clear path for Kíli and his nearest companions, none of whom, save perhaps Nordri, were unscathed. Fortunately Bain did not seem overly affected by his injuries, and, though Kíli’s arm hung loosely at his side, his legs were working well enough. Thorin Bilbo believed was upright through sheer stubbornness, and he inwardly wondered what would happen if the dwarf was actually required to use the borrowed sword in his hand.

As it turned out, though, swords did not serve any of them particularly well.

The pathway Northri had chosen through the mountain consisted more of intersecting tunnels than the death defying walkways of the higher levels, a safer route than that they had used to get in, but only insofar as the sturdiness of the rock around them. For tunnels meant a restriction to what even the dwarves could see in the darkness, and none, not even Beorn, sensed the danger until they were right in the midst of it. Three unarmed cave trolls had been bad enough, and now Bilbo found himself trapped in a room with at least seven of the formidable giants, all armoured and armed, with every intent of crushing dwarf and hobbit alike underfoot.

The result was nothing short of chaos as the dwarves scattered in an effort to avoid falling hammers and maces and Beorn hurled himself at the nearest troll in a violent rage. Bilbo found himself able to do little more than dodge certain death, desperately trying to keep track of his friends in the panic that had broken out. Burdened as he was, Bain had not even tried to fight, choosing instead to dive across the room towards the one tunnel that stood unguarded. Thorin and Kíli had inevitably done their best to follow him, and Bilbo copied them both. It was no easy task, weaving back and forth between friend and foe alike, but by some miracle they all made it to the comparative safety offered by the more enclosed space, hesitating as one the moment they were out of immediate danger.

“Come on,” Bain urged, when he saw that they had stopped. “We must hurry.”

“But what about…?” Whether through loyalty to the task appointed him or good instincts in self-preservation, Nordri had followed them, and now stared back through the arch into the room where his grandfather and many others were still fighting for their lives.

“They are buying us time,” Bain snapped. “So we had best not waste it. Come!”

Acting on his own command the dwarf captain turned and began running again, the fact Fíli was still cradled in his arms meaning both Kíli and Thorin were sure to follow. Nordri hesitated a moment longer, but turned away at last, his face twisted in agonized indecision even as he made his choice.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Gundabad may have provided a home for orcs and goblins for a fair number of years, but it was still a dwarf kingdom, and little change had been made to the architecture its original inhabitants had designed when constructing it. Unfortunately for the small band of dwarves and one hobbit now fleeing through its lower hallways, this was not entirely to their advantage. Dwarf kingdoms were wrought solely of stone, so there were no rope bridges to cut off pursuit, nor traps to make from shoddy goblin walkways. There was only flight to save them, and even that was an uncertain thing, for their speed was compromised by their wounded members, and their sense of direction had been heavily impeded by the detour they had been forced to take to avoid being caught in the trap that had been laid for them.

Not even that had thrown off their pursuit, however, and the howls of their hunters trailed ever at their heels, drifting closer and closer despite the winding path Bain took in an effort to throw them off. They were running out of time, and Kíli found himself dearly wishing for Gandalf’s presence. The wizard had always had a knack for snatching them right out of the fire before the heat of the flames could do more than singe them, and that particular skill of his was needed now more than ever.

Before him, Bain skidded to a halt, and as Kíli worked his way forward from the rear of the group he realized what it was that had caused the abortion of their flight. The passageway before them was blocked by recently felled stone, no doubt the work of the trolls set loose to end them, though being able to guess who was responsible did not aid them in getting past the barricade.

“Is there a way around?” the archer asked, turning to their guide.

“Yes, but it is too far,” Bain said darkly, shaking his head, his breath heavy as he adjusted Fíli’s limp weight in his arms. “We’ll never outrun them.”

“Then we’ll fight them off,” Nordri answered him with something even Kíli recognized as brashness. It would have been a difficult task had they all been whole and hale. With so many wounded, it was impossible.

“We can’t,” he answered. “Not a whole pack.”

“Can we double back?” Bilbo asked from the back of their small group. “Rejoin some of the others? Find Gandalf, maybe?”

His was not the only mind that had been wondering at the wizard’s absence, then. But thinking of Gandalf had failed to summon him, and Bain’s response was far from encouraging.

“If I knew _how_ to double back, perhaps,” the captain replied. “But I barely know where we are as it is.”

“We need to keep moving,” Thorin offered his own opinion, staring into the darkness behind them. “We may not be able to outrun them, but they’ll catch us all the sooner if we remain where we are. Perhaps there is somewhere near here where we might mount a tenable defence.”

“Water,” Kíli said suddenly, whirling on Bain. “We need water to throw them off our trail. Are there any streams nearby?”

“If we can reach the forges, maybe…”

There was no certainty in his suggestion, but with the sounds of pursuit growing ever nearer there wasn’t much of a choice. In silent unity they started out again with what haste they could manage, Bain directing Bilbo and Thorin to the nearest set of stairs that would take them down another level. Descending the steps slowed them even further, and Kíli, who was walking backwards to watch their rear flank as they reached the bottom, spotted the shadows on the bridge above them, the moment their enemy set foot upon it.

“Bain…”

The captain understood his one word warning, and did his best to quicken their pace. “Take the next left,” he instructed their leaders. “Through the crafting halls. There should be another way down through there.”

The pathway he had dictated took them across a stone drawbridge whose chains had long since rusted away to dust, but they were barely halfway across when the doors on the other side burst apart. Bilbo’s cry of dismay was echoed silently by all of his companions as they laid eyes on yet another enemy, one they could not hope to best in a fight.

“Back!” Thorin bellowed over the mountain troll’s enraged roar, a command that was being followed before it was even spoken. “Back!”

Unlike the trolls they had faced on the road to Rivendell, this one was armed, and their small company had barely made it out of reach before the monstrous creature brought a great hammer crashing down upon the bridge. The impact made the weakened structure tremble with enough force to throw Kíli off his feet, and the second blow shattered the stone where it met the landing on the opposite side of the divide. With a horrible, creaking groan the bridge began to tip downwards, the smoothness of dwarf stone working against them as they all scrambled to find handholds. Kíli locked the fingers of his left hand into the gap between the bridge and the rock off which it swung, holding both himself and Nordri, who had wrapped his arms about Kíli’s left leg in panic, aloft. Above them the troll brandished its hammer again, but the slope of the drawbridge’s incline had swung them out of reach, and, without hurling its weapon away, it could do nothing more to reach them. The same could not be said for the warg pack bearing down on them with all the excitement of a hunter whose prey was surely caught, and Kíli tightened his one-handed grip, desperately trying to haul himself and Nordri back up onto solid ground.

He had barely raised himself an inch when the bridge groaned again in ominous warning, the only sign it offered before the steep incline it had become turned to a sheer drop. Kíli’s hand was almost crushed between the two separate stones as the gap closed between them, but instead his fingers slipped free, and he had time to do little more then cry out in surprise before he was hurtling through space along with the rest of his companions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the goblin who I have christened Grark and shamelessly used for my own purposes. He's quite the learned fellow. 
> 
> http://thetimelesscycle.tumblr.com/post/48635908605/goblins-can-read


	19. Luck to the Line of Durin

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 19**

**_ Luck to the Line of Durin _ **

 

Thorin felt the cold before he realized what it was he had struck. A chill that seeped its way through every barrier, burrowing bone deep, swathing him in an icy blanket. The white waters rose around him and he choked on his shocked inhale as water filled his lungs. For a moment shock overrode his senses and he flailed wildly in panic, but then his head broke the surface and clarity returned.

The fall that had threatened to kill them all through distance had been broken by the rushing stream below, a small mercy, for the current was fast and relentless, churning around rough rock and broken stone in a frothing mass that made it almost impossible to stay afloat, and harder still to espy his companions. In truth the best he could hope for was to keep himself from drowning, and even that was difficult, his tired limbs unwilling to put up a fight against the rush of the stream.

The stream’s bed was narrow but deep, altered long ago to feed water to where water was needed. The banks were close enough together that he could reach out and grasp the stone ledges, but the surface proved too slippery to retain a hold upon, and his fingers scrabbled fruitlessly in search of a crack or crevice. The current was relentless, tearing him away before he could make himself secure, and his head was more often beneath the churning, eddying liquid than above it, his eyes blinded by more than darkness, and his strength slowly seeping away as the water's frigidity drained the last of his failing reserves.

His fading senses were awakened in a rush when he struck something, the impact reverberating across his chest as he instinctively seized a hold of the smooth wood that had brought his headlong flight to a sudden halt. A hand was grasping him by the collar even as his fingers slipped from the delivering stave, dragging him bodily from the water and depositing him without ceremony upon the ground. He lay there for several moments, limp, exhausted, and absolutely frozen, but it was not in his nature to submit to the trivialities of physical limitations, so he heaved himself upright as soon as his arms felt firmer than jelly, and stared in disbelief at the wizard fishing the last of his companions from the water. Gandalf's staff was wedged between two rocks on either side of the stream, creating a barrier for the waterlogged company to grasp onto, and it was only once he had hauled Kíli and Nordri onto dry ground that the wizard retrieved it, hastening to where Bain was leaning across Fíli, checking for signs of life.

Thorin's heart misgave him then, for, if the fall and subsequent soaking had weakened him so much, what had it done to his already direly wounded nephew? Surging to his feet he stumbled towards where Gandalf was now crouched alongside the anxiously gathered companions, his eyes closed as he passed a hand across Fíli's deathly pale features and muttered foreign words beneath his breath. The response was instantaneous as Fíli jerked violently, then began to cough and retch, Bain quickly rolling the elder prince onto his side as his lungs violently objected to the water that had taken up residency inside them. Fíli barely awoke for the ordeal, his eyelids fluttering frenetically as he fell back upon the stone, breaths rasping in his chest, but the movement lasted only a second before he was still again.

And yet he was still alive. By some insane and unforeseen chance they all were, and the sudden weakness brought on by absolute relief nearly floored him again. They were not yet beyond the reach of danger, however, so he locked his knees instead, and returned his gaze to the wizard he dearly hoped knew where they needed to go from here.

"Your little detour may have slowed your pursuit," Gandalf was already speaking, addressing his words to Kíli, who was kneeling at Fíli's side, one hand maintaining a tight hold on his brother's lax arm. "But the enemy is not far behind. We must move quickly, before they close the distance."

"We're on the wrong side of the mountain." Bain answered him, frustration in his voice. “We’ll never make it back to the eastern halls. Not unmarked."

"Is there no way out on this side?" Bilbo asked through chattering teeth.

"Of course there is," Bain retorted. "But it means a day’s travel south beneath the Misty Mountains, and even then we’d be exiting the caverns in the Ettenmoors. There are no settlements there that would be able to offer us aid."

"Then we go back," Kíli stated firmly. "We find a way around."

“You can’t _will_ us a way out, lad,” Bain told him, not unkindly. “I do not know my way around the mountain well enough to stray far from the main pathways, and those will be crawling with the enemy by now.”

The archer’s head swung around, face upturned to the tallest among them. “Gandalf?”

“I am a wizard, dear boy, not a miracle worker.” Gandalf shook his head, and Kíli’s face fell. “I cannot fight an army for you, big or small, but I may be able to keep this one alive long enough for us to risk the longer path.”

“We have no supplies,” Nordri reminded them pointedly. “They all washed away.”

“Ah,” Gandalf said. “But you forget, my young friend, that I did not partake in your impromptu bath. I am carrying enough to get us to our destination, if we are careful.”

“And what happens when we get there?” Bain demanded, even though the tone of his voice betrayed the fact he knew they had no other options. “I mean no disrespect, Gandalf, but the Ettenmoors are hardly overflowing with friendly creatures. We will as likely be killed out there as we will in here.”

“Perhaps,” the wizard replied, his eyes drifting back in the direction they had come from as the noise they had escaped through their downstream flight suddenly started up again. Water may have disguised their scent, but the stream could only have taken them in one direction, and their pursuers knew this. “But if you would rather live a few more days, I suggest we make haste.”

There was really no argument that Bain could make to such a suggestion that did not sound like folly, and the dwarf warrior knew it. With a dark expression on his face he scooped Fíli up into his arms again, though with less ease than he had first performed the feat, and then addressed the company as a whole.

“This way,” he said. “Let us see for how much longer we can cheat death.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

They did not travel far. They could not. Even the relatively unwounded members of their small group were exhausted, and Bilbo, who was more than fed up with water and being wet in general, did not even want to imagine how Thorin and Kíli must be feeling by the time Bain called a halt. The dwarf warrior was trusting that Gandalf’s decision to collapse the tunnel entrance behind them would delay their pursuit long enough to allow them to rest without inviting undue danger upon themselves, and Bilbo sincerely hoped that trust was not misplaced. His last experience with adventure had involved a lot of running to escape certain death, and this little quest of Kíli’s was shaping up to be much the same.

They had no fire, which was a shame, because his clothes were still horribly damp and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from clacking together, but the glow of Gandalf’s staff illuminated their resting spot well enough, allowing Bilbo to take in the bedraggled picture they painted.

Bain appeared to have fallen asleep the moment he lay down, his breaths heavy and loud in the darkness, just short of outright snoring. Nordri, the least injured dwarf among them, had volunteered to sit with Gandalf to keep watch, though Bilbo was not sure whether that act was motivated by a desire not to sleep or a desire to pester the wizard as to whether or not he had seen sight or sound of the young dwarf’s family. Kíli was pressed against the wall, his head bowed so that his dark hair shielded his features, but Bilbo was fairly certain he was awake, closely watching his brother where Fíli lay cradled in his arms, still breathing, but otherwise lifeless. Thorin had done as Thorin always did, and, had it not been for the state of their company, Bilbo might have been able to convince himself they were still on the road to Erebor, with the exiled king propped against some rock or tree or whatever happened to be available, because apparently lying down to sleep was not something he did very often, and even when he did lie down he rarely seemed to actually be sleeping. It was no surprise to the hobbit, then, when the glow of Gandalf’s staff revealed the dwarf sitting upright and very awake, his eyes trained on his nephews, and the haunted expression on his face only accentuated by the pale, white light.

It was not a look he had seen often, and it was that thought, along with the recollection of the last time he had seen Thorin wear that self-same expression, that prompted him to rise stiffly to his feet, cross the distance between himself and the Company’s once-leader, and sit himself down without a single word. He earned himself a startled glance from the dwarf in question for his efforts, supposed he could understand why Thorin might be surprised, and promptly said the first thing that popped into his head.

“Are you alright?”

The answer to his question should clearly have been ‘no’, that much he could tell simply by looking at the dwarf, who had never cut anything less than an imposing figure before the current moment. There was very little to be found imposing about how Thorin looked now though, pale and drawn and _weak_ , though Bilbo would never have thought to use that word when describing the exiled king before. Regardless of what the answer should have been, Thorin seemed incapable of offering one at all, and instead replied with a question of his own.

“What are you doing here, Master Baggins?”

“Helping Kíli to save you both,” he answered immediately, not missing a beat. “Though I confess we don’t seem to be doing a particularly good job of it.”

Thorin made a noise of irritation, moving one hand in an abortive movement as he said, “But _why_? Why are _you_ here? After what happened in Erebor…”

It was a loaded question, and addressed all that Bilbo doubted any of them were truly ready to face. Thorin was staring at him now, though, eyes hard and demanding an answer, so he gave the best he could.

“Because if I hadn’t come – if _Gandalf_ hadn’t come – Kíli was planning on going by himself.” He made no mention of Legolas or Tauriel or even Beorn, the people Kíli had unwittingly and unintentionally drawn to his side without even really trying to. “Besides, from what I understand, what happened at Erebor was due to the curse of that treasure, and I do not see how one can be blamed for being cursed.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin spoke his name heavily, emphasis on his next words. “I would have killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” Through Kíli’s intervention or Gandalf’s did not really matter, the act had never been carried out, and the fact that it had been attempted… Well, Bilbo had spent months on the road with the Company, time enough to get to know them all as well as he possibly could, and he knew, with a sense of certainty that would not be shifted, that Thorin had not been himself upon the wall that day. In his mind, the gold sickness of Erebor had all but taken on an identity of its own, and it had been that enemy he was trying to vanquish when he approached Kíli with his mad plan to take the Arkenstone to Bard. That foe he had failed to overcome when Thorin had not come back to his senses. "It's over and done now, regardless, and I say what's in the past should stay there."

“No.” Thorin shook his head in disagreement. “It should not. The past is a lesson, Master Baggins, and it is not right to sweep it out of sight for convenience’s sake. I wronged you, without cause or thought for the services you so graciously offered me and mine throughout the duration of our time together, and for that… for that I am truly sorry, though I know simply feeling regret cannot possibly atone for the way in which our time together ended.”

It was a far more humble apology than that he had received after the disastrous encounter with Azog in the Misty Mountains, heartfelt and not cloaked in a scolding that somehow morphed into a compliment and apology ravelled into one. Because this was not simply regret for having doubted Bilbo’s ability to defend himself and his place amongst the traveling adventurers, something he himself admitted had been well founded. No, this was different. This was contrition felt for an act Thorin was truly ashamed of having ever committed. For which he felt guilt. At least, that was what he saw in the dwarf’s expression, if his time spent in the exiled king’s company had rendered him as any sort of authority on the matter.

“I don’t believe it _has_ ended yet,” he said aloud, breaking the tensely expectant silence that had fallen. “Besides, I am not a dwarf, and I do not simply hold grudges for the sake of holding grudges.” Thorin snorted at that. Bilbo was all but convinced it was not out of actual amusement, but more because Thorin had reached the point where laughter was the only option left on the spectrum of reactions that were at least mostly appropriate. “Anyway,” he continued, brushing such thoughts aside. “The point is it is all forgiven, else I would not be talking to you right now, would I?”

"You are generous." There was more gratitude in that single utterance than Bilbo had heard from any of the dwarves on their entire journey, save perhaps Kíli in the aftermath. “I do not deserve it.”

“Well, that’s the funny thing about forgiveness, isn’t it?” he remarked, leaning back against the tunnel’s wall and deliberately not cringing at the way the movement made his damp raiment cling to his back. “It doesn’t have to be earned to be offered.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

They were moving again long before any of them were truly rested, trudging through tunnels that were a strange mixture of dwarf work and goblin additions, and which still smelled heavily of those who commonly used the underground routes. It was hard going, and now that their hunters were not on their very heels Kíli’s mind had the unwelcome opportunity to take stock of what new damage had been inflicted upon his already wounded body. He could barely feel his right arm, the fingers a mere tingling mass on the end of a dead weight that was currently swinging off a shoulder screaming bloody murder. He had ignored the advice of every healer who had given caution about using the damaged limb, and now he was paying for that carelessness, using his left arm to hold the right to his chest in an effort to alleviate the throbbing ache of retribution his shoulder had unleashed upon him. The rest of him was not faring much better, and he knew he must be sporting at least a half a dozen new bruises, without making mention of the fresh injury that had been dealt to his neck. He did not know what it was that made the orcs of Bolg’s line want to strangle him so much, but he could have done without the repetition of the initial experience.

The most frightening thought, however, was that, despite all this, he was still in better health than his brother. Fíli still had not stirred, not even when Bain changed the dressings on his leg shortly before they set out, and, even with the combined efforts of the dwarf healer and the wizard, Fíli was swiftly developing a fever that threatened to finish what blood loss and pain alone had not yet accomplished. They were too far away from true aid, too great a distance from safety, and Bain and Gandalf may think they were being subtle in their silence, but he knew. He _knew_ what those speechless exchanges of grim looks meant.

Fíli was slipping away.

After coming so far and trying so hard, Kíli was still doomed to fail.

He kept walking regardless, because there was nothing else to do, and because some small part of him still wanted to throw logic and reality aside and believe that there was still a chance. That he was owed one last miracle, as if those he had been granted already were not more than he deserved as it was. But this? Granting him the hope that he could save his family only to have it then ripped away from him? It was the utmost cruelty, and the blow that may well and truly knock him to the ground and keep him from rising again. The very idea terrified him, and so he stayed always within arm’s reach of his suffering kinsman, all but heedless of his companions, and certainly not paying attention to his surroundings.

He did not see the light blooming before him until he was stepping through the exit, setting sunlight flooding his eyes and all but blinding him. He raised a hand to shield them, staggering slightly, then stood and stared out across the bleak lands into which they had emerged. The Ettenmoors had never been tamed, not by elf nor man nor dwarf, and standing on their edge and staring out across the desolate land that was their heart, Kíli could see why. Surely nobody would choose to live in such a place by choice save trolls and creatures of their ilk. Bain was right, they would find no aid here, and by the time they reached Rivendell – to his knowledge the nearest place where they could expect to find shelter and sanctuary – it would be too late.

His heart sank, his hopes dashed into the ground, and then he froze, staring in wild and honest disbelief at the saddled and bridled horse currently drinking from the small river that ushered forth from the mountain roots, and the rider standing alongside it, gazing back at the ragtag party that had just emerged from the overgrown, stone entrance with an equal amount of shock. For a moment they all simply stood there, none quite sure how to react, and then the cloaked rider was stepping forward, tugging away the mask that covered the lower features of his face as he spoke, his words addressed to the wizard in their midst.

“Mithrandir?” The face and voice was human, even though the title itself was that more commonly used by elves than men, and Kíli blinked, still trying to decide if he was truly seeing what he was seeing or if this was all a desperate illusion conjured by his frantic mind. “What on earth…?”

Gandalf, to the surprise of all, burst out laughing.

“Alatair!” he greeted the openly bewildered human warmly. “Never have I been so glad to see a familiar face in such unexpected surroundings! We are in dire need of your aid, my friend.”

Surprise fled from the human’s grey eyes to be replaced by something close to fond exasperation. “Of course, Mithrandir,” he answered smoothly. “Only you would appear out of nowhere to demand aid without explanation.”

“There is no time for explanation, I fear.” The mirth was gone from Gandalf’s voice as he stepped aside, motioning Bain forward. “We have wounded among us.”

Alatair’s eyes alighted on Fíli almost instantly, but they remained there for only a second, and then he was turning, hand raised as he signalled without words to companions none of the party could see from their current location. Four more riders swiftly appeared in response, clad as Alatair had been in brown cloak and mask, only their eyes visible, so that they blended neatly into their surroundings.

“It is not safe here,” Alatair addressed them all. “If you are willing, we will take you to our camp further down the valley.”

“Your camp?” Kíli would have said yes in a heartbeat, caution be damned, but Thorin chose now to break the silence he had been keeping thus far, suspicion in his tone. “What are rangers doing camping in the Ettenmoors?”

“What are dwarves doing beneath the Misty Mountains?” Alatair countered.

“It is a long story,” Bilbo offered, obviously trying to avert an argument, and the rider nodded.

“I have no doubt, but the time to exchange tales is not a luxury we have. I am offering you aid, Master Dwarf, whether or not you choose to take it is up to you.”

“We’ll take it,” Kíli said quickly, before Thorin could so much as utter a sound.

“Then come,” the man commanded. “You have little time to waste, and none of us will want to be upon these slopes once the sun has set.”

 


	20. Fortune Favours the Faithful

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 20**

**_ Fortune Favours the Faithful _ **

 

Alatair put the most wounded members of the company on horseback, ignoring the fact dwarves rarely rode anything larger than a pony by choice, and equally unaffected by Thorin's open, if silent, disapproval. 

"We need the speed," was his answer to the dwarf's incredulous glance, and Thorin could not argue with the logic in that decision, especially not when he seriously doubted his continued ability to carry his own weight whilst walking, much less running. He was not expected to control his steed regardless, charged instead with keeping his eldest nephew mounted, for Bain would not be riding with them, and Kíli’s damaged arm rendered him incapable of retaining a firm hold on his brother. Alatair mounted the young archer behind one of the four rangers in his small band; Eldalil, the only warrior beneath his command to be riding with them.

"Kilarin, Luin, and Urris will escort you to the camp," Alatair addressed the footbound members of their small band as he lifted himself into the saddle, the reins of Thorin and Fíli's horse looped around one hand. "You should be safe enough if you stay near the river."

"Do not worry about us," Gandalf assured the ranger. "We have walked through greater danger than this to get here."

"I do not doubt it," the man answered. "And I shall expect to hear the tale of how five dwarves, a halfling and a wizard came to be beneath the Misty Mountains in full later."

It was all the farewell he allowed, swinging his horse about and pushing the willing creature straight into a canter. Thorin instinctively tightened his hold on both his nephew and the saddle, but his own mount’s gait proved smooth enough for the latter to be an unnecessary precaution. He focused instead on supporting the eldest prince’s limp frame, knowing full well that, no matter how firm his grasp, Fíli was still falling. Falling before an enemy he could not fight, nor truly outrun, for no matter how hard he pressed himself, even if that be to the point of collapse, it may still not be enough. Death had a hold on his heir, a vice it was not willing to loosen, because he hadn't been able to prevent it from ever attaining even a fleeting grasp. 

So many mistakes had been made upon reaching Erebor, some he would never be able to rectify, many that would have lasting consequences, and some he knew he needed to resolve before damage already inflicted became compounded. It had not escaped his notice that his youngest nephew had avoided any form of interaction during their escape, and, whilst he might have been able to attribute some of that to Kíli’s single-minded focus on his wounded sibling, he knew better than to believe Fíli’s failing health was to blame for the young archer’s actions in their entirety. Had things still been as they once were between them, Kíli would have turned to him for assurance by now, for comfort, even, but the young dwarf had not so much as glanced his way since that moment in the arena, all his energy dedicated to the task of keeping Fíli alive. Thorin feared that would not be enough. He feared Fíli had borne his injuries with nothing but the most rudimentary treatment for far too long. He feared he would lose the one if the other died. He feared that he would be denied the chance to offer succour when it was most needed, because he had lost the right to the role he had once held in his nephew’s life the moment he raised his blade against his own flesh and blood.

He feared, above all else, watching more loved ones die whilst he was forced to live on with his grief.

And so he counted every minute as they raced through the crisp, evening air, traveling at speed as they followed the Hoarwell River south from where it escaped the mountain’s boundaries. They trod the banks of the rushing water as it sailed across sheer rock, drowning out the thundering of their horses’ hooves as it poured down a steep fall into the valley of Hoardale, where the river itself split into two. From there it travelled south still, but with an eastern and western arm too wide to safely cross, mounted or on foot, that embraced an island between them. It was for this isle that they were bound, following the wide sweep of the river’s eastern arm until they reached a crumbling, stone bridge that spanned the water at its widest point, where it began to swing west again. They crossed it in a clatter of hooves on stone, the two cloaked figures who had been standing guard at the bridge’s end moving aside to let them pass, and made for the standing, stone walls in the isle’s centre that appeared as little more than a leftover remnant of a once proud fort.

Alatair had spoken of a camp, and Thorin had assumed that camp would be the same as all the others in the Wild. A warm fire, tents if they were lucky, and a group of adventurers and their mounts gathered around one or both. But the Ettenmoors were not a place one travelled lightly, and the rangers, whatever their purpose in the region, had made certain to choose a spot far more defensible than any other. The structure that dominated the majority of the island’s dry land appeared as a ruin on the outside, giving the illusion that it was utterly uninhabited, but as soon as they had passed through the barbican into the courtyard beyond it became evident that much work had been done to make the building sturdy again. It was no great palace fit for a king, but a humble man could have found no fault with lodging within the restored edifice, and, to the band of desperate souls they were, it was nothing less than sanctuary.

Alatair was already swinging himself down from the saddle, moving to aid Thorin in lowering Fíli to solid ground, when the door to the main building burst open and a dark-eyed woman with a weatherworn face appeared at the top of the steps.

“Alatair, where have you…” she trailed off, eyes widening in surprise as she took in the strange and horrific sight they must surely be.

“Ana.” Alatair did not give her time to ask a single question, juggling Fíli’s weight with far less ease than Bain had, and speaking with swift urgency, “Where is Nárran?”

“I am here.” Another ranger, shorter than Alatair and with more grey hairs flecked through his dark locks, appeared beside Ana on the steps, the grim expression on his face betraying the fact he knew only one reason could have prompted such a summons. “What has happened?”

“We have wounded,” Alatair explained, already striding towards the shelter offered by the fort’s inner keep. “It is bad, Nárran.”

Nárran took in the state of the eldest prince in a single glance before speaking.

“Bring him in here,” he ordered. “Swiftly. Ana, clear the table.”

He did not wait to see if they obeyed, hastening on ahead with Thorin and Alatair right on his heels, Kíli trailing them both as they passed from the entrance hall into what would normally have served as a form of dining room, but which now took on a whole new purpose. There was no bed, but Ana gestured towards a rough hewn table covered with a clean blanket that served the same purpose, and Alatair lowered Fíli’s weight onto the sturdy surface with great care. Nárran barely waited for him to step away before setting to work upon the injured prince, cutting away ruined cloth to reveal the bruises and cuts their flight had not allowed them time to tend. Kíli moved to stand at his brother’s side as the healer worked, the fingers of his functioning hand clutching his brother’s forearm as his eyes followed Nárran’s progress until the healer’s hands inevitably came to hover over Fíli’s mangled leg, where his swift and sure progress suddenly came to a halt.

“When did this happen?” Blue eyes flashed up to bear into each of them in turn, though it was Thorin who offered a hoarse response, his voice pitched low.

“Two, almost three days ago,” he replied soberly, asking a question whose answer he feared he already knew, “Can you help him?”

“I am battling infection, blood loss, shock, trauma, and badly broken bones, Master Dwarf,” was Nárran’s grim answer. “I will do what I can, but I can offer you no certainties.”

That Thorin had known already, and, by the way Kíli bit his lip and turned away, the archer had realized it as well. Nárran did not say more, already turning to forage through the supplies Ana had been gathering as he worked, speaking without looking up.

“Ana, Alatair, I shall need your help. You two…” His eyes swung back and forth between Kíli and Thorin, the furrows in his brow deepening as he took in their appearance. “Find a seat and stay there,” he ordered at length. “This will be a long night, and I would rather not have three dwarves treading the borders of death all at once if I can help it.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

It was full dark by the time Bilbo stepped through the open doors of the rangers’ keep and felt the warmth of a well-tended fire begin to beat back the winter chill that had settled in during the long walk from the foot of the Misty Mountains. It had been a journey made all the longer by the silence that had enshrouded them all, worry quelling any desire for conversation, and their three guides respecting their desire for quiet enough to be with their own thoughts by remaining mute themselves. For Bilbo, however, the silence had made their walk through the moors all the more eerie, which made the glow of the fire and the sight of the men around it a far more comforting picture than it would have been under any other circumstances.

“Welcome to Tol Ascarnen, Mithrandir.” Eldalil rose as they entered, the light of the fire revealing him as the eldest of their unlikely band of rescuers, his face more weathered and wrinkled than the mountains they had just departed from, though a lively spark still shone in his green eyes. “Or what is left of it.”

“More than enough to provide shelter, I see,” was the wizard response as he took a seat near the fire, all three of his exhausted companions choosing to follow his example. It was the first time Bilbo had been warm since his icy bath in the stream beneath Gundabad, and he all but crawled into the flames in his haste to warm up. Seeing this Eldalil nodded to the young man who had been seated beside him when they entered, who rose and vanished from the room as Gandalf asked, “How is young Fíli?”

“Nárran is tending to him now,” Eldalil answered with a shrug, not of indifference, but uncertainty. “He is a skilled healer, but…”

‘But’ indeed, Bilbo thought, recalling the injuries he had observed whilst trying to help Kíli rouse his unconscious sibling. He had seen worse on the battlefield outside Erebor, it was true, but those wounds had littered the bodies of the _dead_. His morbid thoughts were interrupted by the return of Eldalil’s young friend, the youthful ranger bearing a tray laden with bowls of a lukewarm stew that was gratefully accepted by all. They had been on the road a long time, and Bilbo had lost count of the number of days since he had had a decent meal.

He had only raised his spoon halfway to his lips when a thought struck him, however, and he lowered it again swiftly. “Have Thorin and Kíli eaten?”

“It was offered,” the weathered man told him. “Neither was in a mood to accept it at the time.”

Which was understandable, if not entirely rational or healthy. Nevertheless, Bilbo could do nothing to fix that state of affairs at present, and turned his attention back to filling his own belly as he wishfully pondered the unlikely possibility that one of Durin’s heirs might suddenly and sporadically sprout some common sense in the interim.

“I am sure they will come around with time,” Gandalf said calmly. “And it may be hoped they are suitably grateful when they do. Finding you here was a stroke of fortune, though I cannot help but wonder what a Dúnedain patrol is doing this far north. What is in the Ettenmoors that Halbaron has seen fit to send you here?”

“Have you heard what happened to old Garrett?” Eldalil answered with a question of his own, and Bilbo stiffened slightly at the wizard’s response.

“Ah, yes, the trolls.” He nodded. “We had our own run in with them traveling east.”

“In which case I highly doubt anybody else will be having similar problems,” Eldalil deduced. “But the trolls are not the only things that have been creeping down from the mountains of late, Mithrandir. Halbaron is concerned, and, after what happened nigh on nine years ago now, he has a right to be. We are not as secure as we were then, our enemy has made us vulnerable, and if there is a danger approaching we need to know of it before it strikes.”

“And have you found anything?” Gandalf inquired mildly.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Eldalil shook his head. “There are small settlement here of lesser orcs, and trolls no doubt still lurk in the Coldfells, but they have always made a home in these bleak lands. There is no reason I can see for trolls and orcs to be migrating south, nothing new in these lands to have prompted them to do so, and it worries me, Mithrandir. Something is driving them into inhabited territory, and I, for one, would like to know what.”

“It could be any number of things,” observed the wizard thoughtfully.

“And yet I perceive that you have more of an idea as to what is responsible than you will willingly speak of,” replied the ranger. “Very well, I know better than to push a wizard for answers, and in truth your hesitance speaks volumes all on its own.”

“Be careful,” Gandalf warned. “That you do not jump to hasty conclusions.”

“There is no flaw in doing so under these circumstances,” Eldalil answered as he rose. “Far better that we be over prepared than not if the worst comes to be.”

Gandalf hummed slightly in response, though if a verbal accompaniment had been meant to go with the noise Bilbo would never know, as the door on the other side of the room swung open and a weary looking Alatair stepped out. There were bloodstains on his clothes, though his hands were clean, leaving no mark on the white towel he was using to dry them, and Bilbo waited, tense alongside the rest of his companions, for the man to speak.

“Your kinsman lives still,” he addressed Nordri and Bain as he spoke, sparing nothing. “But whether or not he will continue to draw breath remains in doubt. Nárran believes if he can last the night he will have a fighting chance, but, for now, we must simply wait and see.”

“And Thorin and Kíli?” Nordri prompted anxiously. “They were wounded as well.”

“They are being seen to as we speak,” Alatair replied. “In fact, Nárran sent me to find out if any of your company was whole, as it seems the majority have injured themselves in various, serious ways.”

“We are fine,” Bain assured him gruffly. “Scratches and bruises only. Nothing a good night’s sleep will not cure.”

“In that case Ranlóm may be able to offer you a better service than Nárran,” the man said, gesturing to the young ranger who had fetched their meals. “I am afraid we cannot offer you luxury, but there are bedrolls enough to spare.”

“That will do,” Bain nodded, rising stiffly to his feet, with Nordri following suit. Both paused before following Ranlóm from the room, however, Bain turning back to address the patrol’s captain. “You will wake us if anything changes?”

“Of course.” Alatair inclined his head, and with a final nod of his own Bain left the entrance hall, Nordri a step behind him.

“And what of you, Master Hobbit?” Alatair inquired, head tilted slightly to the side as he observed Bilbo with an unreadable expression. “Are you in more need of rest or medicine?”

“Neither, at present,” Bilbo answered, smothering a yawn before it could escape. “But I would like to see my friends, if that is alright.”

“You may,” Alatair agreed. “As soon as Nárran is finished with them. In the meanwhile, perhaps you would satisfy my curiosity, and tell me what one of the Little Folk is doing gallivanting around Middle Earth with a wayward wizard.”

“Wayward?” Gandalf, who had been leaning back in his chair with eyes closed in thought or rest, suddenly popped one open. “That is a fine word coming from the lips of one who found an old wizard’s staff to be an irresistible lure as a boy.”

“And who was the wizard that was careless enough to allow said staff out of his charge in the first place?” Alatair replied without hesitation, as Eldalil let out an amused snort. “Now come, Mithrandir, you promised me a tale, did you not?”

“It’s a long one,” Bilbo cautioned.

“All the best are,” the ranger told him, taking a seat opposite the wizard and the hobbit. “So let us hear it.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli awoke slowly, fighting his way through a dense, thick fog, the sensation of drowning in the stuff strong enough that for a moment he thought he’d been drugged again. The feeling was not quite the same as it had been then, however, and neither was the heat that had pervaded every inch of his body, save for the cold deadness of the arm that possessed little to no feeling at all. Something was wrong, though, very wrong, and he struggled to open his eyes so that he might address it. When at last his irrationally uncooperative eyelids rose it was to reveal the profile of a middle-aged human woman, her features vaguely familiar, though it was not until she turned back to him, a smile lightening her features when she saw that he was awake, that the memories that went with her face began to trickle slowly back.

“Ana…”

“Good morning,” she greeted him gently, raising her hand past his line of sight to press something soft and blessedly cool against his forehead. “It is good to see you awake at last.”

“At last…?” Confusion was setting in swiftly, along with a sourceless sense of panic, present, but for what reason he could not yet remember.

“You have been very ill,” his carer explained. “Your injuries may not have been as severe as some, but they were still grievous enough that too little rest, too much stress, and the cold waters of a stream in wintertime took their toll. Your halfling friend has been sporting a sniffle for the past few days, but your own affliction was a trifle more serious than that.”

Lifting the damp cloth from his forehead, she dipped it back into the bowl of water it had originally come from, rewetting the material as Kíli took stock of his own health. He was sore all over, and the heat he was feeling was likely the cause of a lingering fever rather than the thin coverlet that had been spread across him as he slept. His arm was numb, bound across his chest as it had been when he first woke with the injury and…

“Fíli!” He bolted upright, and abruptly wished he hadn’t as the room slanted at an impossible angle and his head pulsed in sharp protest.

“Easy.” Placing a hand on each of his shoulders, Ana eased him back down. “Easy.”

“My brother…” He seized a hold of her sleeve before she could move away again, searching her face frantically for any sign that might tell him what he desperately needed to know. “How is… Is Fíli alright? Is he well? Is…”

“Your brother is a fighter,” Ana answered soothingly, the smallest of smiles adorning her face. “I will not say that the danger has fully passed, for it has not, but he is traveling in the right direction. Nárran is hopeful that he may wake soon.”

Kíli sagged back against the thin mattress protecting him from the cold stone floor, the news adding a new weakness to his limbs as he closed his eyes and fought back the tears of utter relief that were threatening to fall. Fíli was alive. He was _alive_. Kíli hadn’t been too late. At least…

“His leg?” He opened his eyes again, watching the woman’s face as she replaced the cloth against his forehead. "Nárran said he might…”

It had been dreadful news on top of already bad tidings, that, in order to save his brother’s life, the healer may need to take his leg. Kíli had been beside himself when he was told, the depth of the horror he had felt the last thing he remembered before waking this morning.

“We did not have to amputate,” Ana said softly. “Though it was a near thing. If he had been any longer before coming into our care it would have been too late to stem the tide of the infection. As it is the injury itself is still a serious wound. It will likely never fully heal, and when your brother awakes he will have to reconcile himself to the possibility he may well be crippled for the rest of his life.”

It was sobering news, and it warred in Kíli’s mind with the joy of hearing Ana say ‘when’ instead of the ‘if’ that had been uttered before. His emotions were a mess, he did not truly know how he felt about anything, and the weight of all that happened, all that he had not allowed himself to feel at Erebor, on the road, or beneath the halls of Gundabad, seemed set upon making itself known in tandem now that the race was finally over. He felt overwhelmed, and Ana’s next words did not help.

“It is,” she said slowly, wringing the damp cloth in her hands before dipping it back in the ice water. “Something you yourself may need to accept as well.”

“What?” His mind stilled, confronted with this new problem, struggling to make sense of it.

“This shoulder.” Ana reached across and gently touched his bound limb. “The initial injury was not a mild one. You broke bone and tore muscle as well, and the fact you were able to move it at all in the aftermath is a tribute to the skill of the one who tended you. But it needed rest to heal properly, and you did not give it that. The bone is healing well, and will continue to do so in spite of the way it has been mistreated, but muscle is not so forgiving, and you overstrained that which was already badly damaged.”

“I can’t feel my arm,” he admitted, stemming the panic that rose with that thought. “Is that… Will it be like that forever now?”

“No, Nárran does not think so,” Ana offered that small placation. “You will regain at least some feeling, and if you are careful and follow every instruction you are given to aid in its recovery you should be able to use it again. But it is likely you will never regain your full dexterity, and I fear drawing a bow will be out of the question.”

This time it was not relief that made him sag, but a distant sense of shock. He had been warned of the consequences of using his arm before his shoulder was healed. By Oin, by the elven healers, by Tauriel and Runa and practically everyone who had told him rescuing his family in his current state was a terrible idea. He hadn’t listened. He _hadn’t_ listened, because if he had Fíli would be dead right now.

“It was worth it,” he said aloud, fiercely, meeting Ana’s compassionate gaze directly. “It was _worth_ it.”

“Good.” The woman nodded. “Remember that when frustration sets in, and it will. If not now then later.”

Kíli nodded absently, his thoughts already moving past his own injury, drifting to more important matters as he shoved his freshly attained knowledge to the back of his mind.

“Where’s Thorin?” he asked. “And Bilbo and Gandalf and Nordri and Bain?”

“Thorin Oakenshield was not much better off than you are,” obligingly, Ana gave him the answers he wanted. “Which is not surprising, considering the tale Mithrandir told. Orcs keep their prisoners alive not with food, but with their own elixir, that which they carry onto the field of battle. It grants strength so long as one continues to consume it, but it does not heal wounds, nor provide protection against any infection those wounds might incur. The elixir, combined with the inherent stubbornness of your race, carried Thorin this far before malnourishment and injury chose to take their toll. He will recover, likely without any of the lasting consequences you and your brother must face, but, like all other things, it will take time.”

Kíli had honestly not expected that. Thorin had seemed in such comparatively good health when Kíli found them both, and he had carried his own weight for the duration of their escape. But, then, he had not been paying especially close attention to his uncle, so, even had they been there, he would not have seen sign of any injury.

“What about the others?” he pressed.

“Mithrandir departed from the isle yesterday with Nordri and Bain, after Nárran told them the worst was over for all of you,” the woman continued. “Both were eager, I think, to return home. They seemed worried for their families.” Kíli flinched slightly in guilt, for he had forgotten Northri and in what dire straits he had left the Lord of Nordinbad. Ana did not notice, however, and kept speaking. “Master Baggins,” she said, a hint of fondness to her voice. “Is currently dividing his time between your brother, Thorin, and yourself. He has absolutely refused to be anywhere else until you are all well again. He is with Fíli now, I believe, if you would like to join him.”

“Am I allowed to?” Kíli asked wryly, remembering all too well past lectures.

“If you can stand and walk I will take you there,” Ana promised. “Provided you agree to stay exactly where I put you once we arrive.”

“You needn’t worry,” he assured her, even as she helped him into a sitting position, slower this time, so that the room remained cooperatively still. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 


	21. The Regrets of Royal Blood

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 21**

**_ The Regrets of Royal Blood  _ **

 

“You need to talk to Kíli.”

Thorin paused in the act of trying to adjust the clothes he had been given to sit in a way that did not make him feel like he was drowning in them to turn and stare at the hobbit now darkening his doorway. Bilbo’s stance was bold and unmoving, his arms folded across his chest, and Thorin recognized the look in his eyes as one of stark determination. He almost smiled at the sight, such a drastic change from the flustered halfling whose home they had invaded on Gandalf’s bidding, but the words Bilbo had uttered were enough to keep the expression from ever forming.

“I mean to, Master Baggins,” he replied honestly. “But conversation takes two willing participants, and, for the moment, Kíli seems intent on avoiding me. If he does not want to forgive me I fear there is little I can do to change his mind.” He lowered his eyes then, shame making it impossible to hold Bilbo’s gaze as he murmured, “He has every right to never wish to speak to me again.”

Bilbo made a noise that sounded as an odd mixture of frustration and outright exasperation, and Thorin did not need to lift his eyes to know the Company’s burglar had thrown his hands into the air.

“You are an idiot,” the halfling told him bluntly, and Thorin did his best not to take offense at what was stated as nothing less than fact. Bilbo had more than earned the right to speak freely in his presence, and Thorin truly did not have any grounds to argue at present. “This isn’t about Kíli forgiving you. It has never been about that, because he doesn’t _blame_ you, and he never did. For any of it. He thinks it was _his_ fault he got banished. He thinks _he_ betrayed _you_ , and he’s avoiding you because he’s afraid you haven’t forgiven him.”

“What?” For a moment he simply stared at the hobbit, sure Bilbo was not serious, but there was nothing besides sincerity in the halfling’s features. Still, Thorin’s mind denied the possibility, both internally and out loud. “He can’t possibly believe he is at fault for what happened.”

“Apparently he can, and does,” Bilbo retorted. “He won’t listen to anyone else, so it’s going to have to come from you.”

“But I already…” he trailed off, the vivid recollection of the last time he had seen his youngest nephew before he and Fíli were taken springing to the forefront of his mind. Kíli had been dying then, broken and beaten and losing far too much blood, yet he had spent what could very well have been his last breaths begging for forgiveness. Thorin had granted it, knowing even as he did so that there was nothing for which Kíli needed to plead pardon, but it was what his nephew had needed to hear at the time. What he _still_ needed to hear if Bilbo was speaking the truth, though the very fact Kíli thought any portion of the blame could be laid upon his shoulders was incomprehensible to Thorin. He had been prepared for anger, for the bitterness and resentment and even the hatred his actions could have invoked, but for Kíli to turn on himself? To carry guilt that should have been no one’s burden but Thorin’s? That he had not foreseen, though a part of him knew he should have. Kíli had always been more ready to see fault in himself than any other, particularly where his family was concerned, and it seemed that trait had only been amplified during the present dilemma.

“You _need_ to talk to Kíli,” Bilbo said again, and Thorin nodded numbly in response.

“Where is he?” he asked softly, aware that Bilbo seemed to have made it his own personal mission to keep track of every last one of them.

“With Fíli,” was the expected response. “Should I come with you?”

“To control the carnage?” Thorin cast the Company’s burglar a fond, if muted, smile. “No, Master Baggins, I believe this is a matter that needs to be dealt with only between us.”

“Alright,” Bilbo conceded, but there was note of uneasiness to his voice, so Thorin waited, certain the halfling had more to say. He was not disappointed, and it was only a few seconds later that Bilbo spoke again, “Just… Just be gentle, would you? He’s been through a lot.”

"And was fortunate indeed to have you with him through it all," Thorin answered steadily, whilst inwardly marvelling at the hobbit's loyalty. He was glad, suddenly, that it had been Bilbo who rode forth with Kíli, the little, insignificant hobbit who was likely the bravest and noblest of them all. "Truly, the debt my family owes you is one we shall never be able to repay.”

“Don’t be absurd,” answered Bilbo with a dismissive wave of one hand. “You don’t owe me anything besides getting better and making it back to Erebor in one piece. If I am able to see that I shall be more than satisfied.”

“Then I will endeavour to make sure it happens,” Thorin promised. “But, for now, I have another debt to pay.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli’s elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and he startled awake, jerking his chin up from where it had been resting in his palm and gazing wildly about his surroundings. Nothing had changed since he drifted off, the fire in the hearth still crackling merrily away, the book he had been given to pass the time resting open on his knee, and his brother still lying upon the bed against which his left foot was propped, the sound of his even, steady breaths one Kíli would never tire off. Even so it took his heart a few minutes to cease its frantic racing, the aftermath of dreams he could not truly remember, save that they had been dark and dreadful. He had suffered the same in Erebor, and now that he was no longer on the road they had returned to haunt him once more.

Sighing, he raised a hand to scrub at his eyes, scowling at the ornate embroidery that ordained his sleeve. The rangers had offered to provide clothing to replace his ruined garments, but anything they had on hand was an ill fit, so Kíli had opted instead to wear the formal raiment Dain had given to him prior to the Council in Erebor. By some miracle Gandalf had managed not to lose Kíli’s few belongings during their adventures beneath Gundabad, a fact for which Kíli was immensely grateful, for more valuable things than his clothing had been packed within his satchel, but he would have preferred it had his change of clothes not been quite so ostentatious. He had felt out of place wearing them in Erebor, but here, in such humble surrounds, he felt nothing less than pretentious.

Fíli would no doubt find the whole situation hilarious, if he ever decided to wake up.

Twelve hours of ceaseless waiting at his brother’s bedside had yielded nothing new, however, and, whilst Nárran assured him at every hourly check that Fíli was making progress, Kíli could not see it. His brother was showing more bandage than skin at present, his arms and torso both freshly wrapped with some form of sweet smelling salve underneath the dressings. His leg, expertly splinted and bound, was a shapeless mound beneath the single blanket covering him from the waist down, whilst his face was currently contesting with his pillow for the purest shade of white. That was, of course, only where it wasn’t a mass of dark bruises and red scrapes. He looked like what he was; injured, ill, and weak, and Kíli was tired of seeing it. He wanted his brother’s face to shift into an expression other than lax stillness. He wanted to see that spark of mischief duty had barely abated in Fíli’s eyes. He wanted to _speak_ with his brother, to talk to the confidante he had been without for far too long. But wanting it had not hastened the speed of the elder prince’s recovery, and Kíli was left to practice patience he had never possessed in any great abundance.

Bilbo had kept him company for most of the morning, bringing him breakfast, insisting he ate it, and then just filling the silence with tales Kíli barely listened to, letting the words drift about him in a soothing buzz that prevented any of the thoughts he did not wish to entertain from forming. But the hobbit had left some hours before to see how Thorin was faring, and Kíli had been left alone in the silence ever since. A silence he was swiftly coming to hate.

The quiet allowed him time to think, time for thoughts he had not had a chance to confront on the road to swarm to the forefront of his mind, and to his distress the large majority of those thoughts revolved around that crisp morning above the gates of Erebor, and all that had been said upon the wall. Thorin’s words that day had been irremovably burned upon his mind, ‘ _cast out’_ and ‘ _exiled’_ brands seared into his memory, and the anger he had seen on his uncle’s face in that moment a sight he would never forget. He had incited that rage through treachery, and it _had_ been treachery, no matter what any of his companions believed. Thorin had not abandoned Thror even when the gold sickness had taken his grandfather, but Kíli had not shown the same loyalty.

He had betrayed Thorin to save Fíli, and in doing so had almost lost them both.

It had been sheer chance that had placed him in a position to be able to come to Thorin’s rescue on the battlefield, and he did not even want to consider what a large collection of luck and unexpected occurrences of good fortune had led to him being able to rescue them both. There was so much that could have gone wrong, so many times when he could have failed, and those possibilities, even now that they would never come to be, were enough to put a tremor in his hands. There was still one, though, one way through which his family might yet be ripped away from him, and it was that possibility that haunted his every waking second, and made him fear the inevitable moment when Thorin would step through the door to this small sanctuary and pronounce his judgment.

Balin had spoken of forgiveness, he knew, but he did not _remember_ any of that. He did not remember anything but the absolute fury that had twisted Thorin’s features into such an expression as he had never seen before, and the glint of morning sunlight on steel as a blade was raised ready to end him for his wrongdoings. His mind would not believe that forgiveness could come in the wake of such ire, not from Thorin, who never forgave and never forgot. Dain was proof that it was not simply elves who possessed the ability to earn the dwarf lord’s lifelong enmity, and, if Dain had not been forgiven for a lesser crime, then what hope did Kíli have? He did not want to lose his brother, through death or his own exile, but the choice was not his to make, and he feared that the one who held that right would sooner send him away than listen to a single word he spoke.

Which was why he whirled when the door swung open, the book sliding from his knee to land on the ground with a loud ‘thud’ that pierced the stillness, his grip on the arm of his chair so tight the wood creaked beneath his fingers. He could not stop the sense of panic that sent his heart thudding rapidly in his chest once more. That stilled his tongue when he knew he should be speaking. That left him seated and staring in terror as he awaited the stroke of doom.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Thorin acknowledged the trepidation on his youngest nephew’s face with a regret that ran deeper than the Mithril veins of Moria. Kíli was afraid, not of orcs or trolls or wargs, but of _him_. Of deeds he had done and words he had said and might yet say. Words with the power to do as much damage as any blade.

“Kíli…”

The truth was he did not know what to say. How to even begin to make amends for what he had done. To repair the rift he had opened between them. The way he had treated Bilbo alone had been bad enough, but Kíli was family, and Thorin had threatened to end his _life_. He had taken everything in those few brief moments on the wall, and some things, he knew, he would never be able to give back.

“How is he?” he asked at last, choosing Fíli as the neutral ground between them. It did nothing to set Kíli at ease, the young archer still wound as tensely as the string on his bow, though it at least garnered him some form of response.

“Sleeping,” Kíli said. “Narran said he might wake soon.”

It was good news, an outcome he had not dared to hope for when Bolg had them in his grasp, and which would never have come to be were it not for the bravery and determination of his youngest nephew, who had quite literally risked life and limb to come to their rescue. He was not blind to the signs of injury that adorned the young dwarf’s frame, the most obvious of those the bindings holding his right arm still against his chest, peering out beneath the surprisingly fine coat that was currently hanging loosely around Kíli’s shoulders. Thorin frowned slightly as he took note of the embroidered material, his awareness expanding to take in the whole of his nephew’s appearance, before he uttered what was quite possibly the most random question to have ever escaped his lips.

“What are you wearing?”

The words surprised the younger dwarf enough that Kíli’s head lifted slightly, his eyes tracing the pattern on his sleeve in seeming confusion, before he shrugged. "It was a gift," he murmured. "From Dain."

"It suits you well," Thorin commented, a hundred different messages hidden in those words, none of which reached their intended target, for Kíli was already closing himself off again, bracing for the worst and unwilling to listen to anything that might precede it.

Thorin was not Balin. He did not have his old friend’s gift for words, and often used actions in their place. His family knew this well enough, and it was with that thought in mind that he strode forward, taking advantage of Kíli’s downcast gaze, for his nephew did not realize how close he was until it was too late, and Thorin had already extended his hand to finger the tangled locks framing the younger dwarf’s face.

"Your hair is a mess," he stated simply, in answer to the startled, almost wild glance his actions earned him. "Where is your clasp?"

"I..." Kíli frowned pensively, wrong-footed by the tame subject matter and searching for the right memories to provide the answer Thorin sought. Thorin saw clearly the moment when he found them, his eyes darkening and growing distant as he bit his lip. "Bolg took it from me."

"I see."

He remembered now how that same clasp had been tossed at his feet in jeering mockery as Bolg threatened to torment his youngest nephew before his eyes, but did not realize how condemning those two words sounded until Kíli’s face fell, the archer’s head ducking quickly to hide his pain. The clasp had been his mother's, just as Fíli's once belonged to Frerin. The third part of the set was Thorin's own, though he no longer wore it in his hair. It was a cherished heirloom, and a grievous loss, but if Kíli thought he would blame him for having misplaced the relic then he had fallen far further in his sister-son’s eyes than he would have thought possible. Reaching out again, he gave the dark locks adorning the younger dwarf’s head a gentle tug, pulling Kíli from whatever thoughts he had retreated to examine.

"Turn around," he commanded gently.

Clearly confused, Kíli nonetheless acted on his ingrained instinct to obey his uncle’s commands, sitting rigidly still as Thorin worked the worst of the knots from his hair with practiced ease. He then proceeded to braid it, just a single plait down the back of Kíli's head, before reaching for the cord that hung about his neck. How Bolg had not espied it and robbed him of it was a mystery, and one he was not of a mind to solve. Carefully working the clip free of its chain he placed it where his sister’s had once sat in her son’s hair. Kíli stiffened the moment he felt the extra weight, raising a hand to touch the clasp, before turning to look over his shoulder at his uncle with a look that was both tentatively hopeful and sharply wary.

"The emblem of the House of Thráin should be worn by his kin," Thorin answered his unspoken question. "I have never regretted a moment of my life more than that where I denied you your place as my sister-son. I have no right to ask for your forgiveness, Kíli, so I will not. Know only that I am sorry, that I would give every last coin in that accursed mountain for the chance to undo what has been done."

It was undoubtedly the furthest thing from what Kíli had been expecting, and Thorin watched, waiting, as a myriad of emotions swept across his nephew’s visage. There was disbelief there, born of remembered grief and pain, the self-same hurt he had inflicted, and it manifested in words that did nothing but add to the wealth of regret he was already feeling.

“No,” Kíli said at last, shaking his head slightly as he struggled to comprehend what he had been told. “It was my fault. I stole…”

Thorin silenced that train of thought with a look. “Nothing that has happened has been your fault, Kíli. Not a single thing, and I will not allow you to bear the blame for any of it. _I_ wronged _you_ , and nothing you did then or since can change that, or lessen the remorse I now feel. Do you understand that?"

"The Arkenstone..." Kíli began falteringly.

"Was not worth losing you."

And he meant that. Meant every word. He had been bewitched by the mountain’s treasure, cast beneath the same foul spell as his grandfather, and it would have driven him to destroy the most precious thing in his life all for the sake of a stone. For that was all the Arkenstone was, in the end. Beautiful and priceless, but still just a stone that’s worth dwindled to nothing when weighed against the value of his kin. He could have lost them. He could have lost them both through no one’s fault but his own, and that knowledge had shaken him to his very core.

The young dwarf frowned, unconvinced. "But I..."

"You forget that I was there when Thror lost himself to the sickness, Kíli," Thorin interrupted again, gently, for this was a nightmare they now shared, even if the outcome had been vastly different this time around. "I know what it is like to watch."

Kíli blinked sharply, and Thorin could almost see the haunting memory playing out behind the archer’s dark eyes, as it had in his own so many times before. He had so desperately wanted to spare Fíli and Kíli that same burden, but instead he had inflicted it, and he could not take it back no matter how dearly he wished to.

"I'm sorry that I took it," Kíli whispered at last, struggling to hold Thorin's gaze. "I know what it meant to you."

"More than it should have," he retorted sharply. "The day I hold a family heirloom, Arkenstone or not, in a place of more value then my own kin..." He shook his head again. "I should never have raised my hand against you, Kíli. No matter your actions, such punishment was undeserved. I hate to think what might have happened had Gandalf not been there."

In truth, the possibility all but haunted him, Before the wizard had spoken he had had every intention of bringing his blade down, of ending Kíli’s life then and there. He would have spilled the blood of his own kin in the halls of his home, and only once the deed was done would he have returned to his senses. It was a nightmare he would not soon forget, and he shuddered at the very thought.

Kíli noticed the motion, a frown forming on his face as he raised a hand, stopping just short of making contact. “Uncle..."

Thorin smiled, and Kíli broke off, visibly uncertain.

"I was beginning to fear you would never call me by that again," he explained softly, only to watch a shadow return to his nephew’s expression.

“You told me I no longer could.”

“I know.” And what he would not give to have never said those condemning words. To have never seen the devastation that all but tore the younger prince apart. "But my words above the front gate that ill fated morning were no more my own than my actions. You know this, I hope?"

"Balin said you had revoked them," Kíli answered without answering, doubt evident in every word.

"And you did not believe him?" Thorin guessed.

"I did not know what to believe," Kíli admitted, his composure cracking as the weight of all that had happened suddenly came crashing down upon him. Thorin had known it was coming, had expected it, and still found it no easier to watch. "I woke after the battle to the news you were both gone and that I was the new heir. They said you were dead. _Dead_. I was so afraid that it would be too late. That we would find nothing but… nothing but…”

Thorin had seen enough, and it was instinct to reach forward, to enfold his nephew in his arms and crush the youth against his chest in a fierce embrace. Kíli did not resist his hold, trembling fit to simply fall apart, and Thorin shifted to place one hand between his nephew’s shoulder blades, the other resting on the back of his head, gently but firmly keeping him in place. He did not at first realize Kíli was still speaking, the young dwarf’s voice muffled against his shoulder, but when the words did reach him they all but undid him.

“Please don’t send me away. I can’t… Not… Please don’t send me away.”

“I’m not sending you away, Kíli.” It was more than a promise, it was an oath, made to himself and his nephew and anyone he could trust to hold him to it and never, _never_ allow it to be broken. “Never again.”

Kíli did not accept the words at face value, expressing a lack of faith Thorin could not blame him for, not when he had been the cause of its occurrence.

"Not even if I've robbed you of your throne?" the archer asked tremulously, the words falling from his lips like water over stone, and Thorin stiffened, fearing the implications of that question, but his voice remained compassionate.

"Not even then," he promised, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as some of the tension drained from the young dwarf’s frame. There was still a tremor there, though, the aftershock of all that happened, and something that still needed to be addressed. With that thought in mind he spoke again, his words an open offer to air all that had not yet been said. “Tell me what happened in Erebor.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

"Tell me what happened in Erebor," Thorin said.

Intending to obey, Kíli attempted to pull back, but found his uncle’s arms to be unmoving. Realizing he was going to have to stay where he was until the elder dwarf saw fit to release him, Kíli took a deep breath and began. He told Thorin of what he had seen of the battle, of the hard won victory the united peoples had achieved. He told of the restoration already underway in Erebor, and the masons at work in the ruins of Dale. He told all, and yet he told nothing, and Thorin was far too perceptive not to notice.

"I hear a great deal of Dain and the others in all this," he stated plainly. "What of you? What part did you have to play?"

_That of the maddened survivor_ , Kíli thought bitterly. _The exiled Heir of Durin who allowed grief to take him and others to shoulder burdens that should have been his_. He had shamed his family with his selfish actions, and he could not think of a single contribution he had made that would satisfy his King.

"I..." Perhaps it was a mercy that he was pressed against Thorin's chest. That way he would not have to see the disappointment in his eyes. "I did nothing. What was accomplished was done without me."

"And yet you are here," Thorin observed pensively. "And Fíli and I both have your presence to thank for our lives."

"Bilbo helped," Kíli reminded him subduedly. "And Gandalf. And others, too. Without them we would all be dead."

"Indeed," Thorin's interest was clear, but he did not press for details. "And what of the rest of the Company? Where are Dwalin and Balin? Where are the others? Why did they not come?"

"They... they couldn't," he stammered, groping for an adequate response. "They had work to do in Erebor and…"

"You have never been overly good at deceiving me," Thorin interjected, finally allowing Kíli room to pull back so that their gazes met, though the older dwarf's hands retained a grasp on his arms just above the elbow.

Unable to hold Thorin's stare, Kíli lowered his own to the floor.

"Kíli."  Thorin's tone was still gentle, but there was a familiar, sharp edge that he knew better than to ignore. "I would have the truth."

"They…" The words choked him, and he struggled to retain his composure as he recalled how he had begged and pleaded all for naught. "They would not come. They said you were dead, you and Fíli both, and that the fallen should be allowed to rest in peace. They said…”

They said he had taken leave of his senses. That grief had brought upon him the madness that had taken so many of his bloodline. That he was a hysterical child unfit to rule and unwilling to accept the truth. The words had held no sway over him then, his resolve so complete the bodies of his dead kin could not have convinced him to abandon his quest, but recalled now they stung. Stung terribly, and he could not tell Thorin the shame he had brought upon the family name.

"And you did not agree?" Thorin ignored his momentary lapse.

"I knew you were not dead," he answered fiercely. "I knew, and I could not just leave you."

Thorin smiled at him, though there was sadness in his expression as well.

"Loyalty," he quoted softly. "Honour. A willing heart. You have all three in abundance, my nephew, and I could not be more proud."

The words were a balm to the ragged wound in his heart, but he could not so easily accept them as truth. Not when Thorin had not yet heard all that happened. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Thorin was swifter.

“And do not tell me to wait until I have heard the tale in full,” he said sternly. “Whatever happened, Kíli, whatever you did to try and save us will not change _anything_. You are an heir of the line of Durin and my nephew, and that will never change.”

"Then…" he hesitated, then forged on. "Then I should tell you that you may not yet have a kingdom to rule. Dain governs Erebor now as its rightful king because I… I revoked my claim."

Thorin gazed at him in silence for a long moment, digesting that knowledge, and Kíli waited, tense again in readiness for the expected anger, only to receive a single, gentle word instead. "Why?"

"Because I did not want it," he answered in low and desperate tones. “Because it was not mine. Because I thought you were dead and yet I knew that you were not. Because I thought _I_ was mad. Or dead. Or both. I do not know.”

"You were beside yourself, Kíli." Thorin’s hold on him tightened slightly, a reassuring squeeze, and Kíli took comfort in the grounding contact even as he feared it would still be taken away. "You were forced to watch something that nearly destroyed the people of Erebor seize a hold of all your companions. Your attempts to save them were perceived as treachery, and you almost died for a king more than undeserving of your loyalty. You were grievously wounded and deeply grieved, and yet you still managed to believe in Fíli and I, and yourself. You came a long way to save us both, at great cost to yourself. Muddled your mind may have been, but not by madness.”

Kíli swallowed sharply, ducking his head. "I was afraid," he confessed, but did not elaborate. Thorin could guess well enough on his own.

"I gave you every reason to be. If my reaction to the Arkenstone was so terrible, what would I do when told Erebor could be denied to us? I am sorry I ever gave you reason to think such thoughts."

Kíli nodded, but could not stop himself from asking the question lingering foremost in his thoughts.

“Why are you not angry?” he whispered, searching Thorin’s face for some sign of what he had expected to find there all along, yet could detect no trace of. Thorin did not answer at once, his expression considering, his words, when they did come, thoughtful.

“Perhaps because I never thought I would see Erebor again. I expected death when I marched into that battle, and more so when Bolg took us both.” He hesitated, then added more, “Or maybe it is because I am beginning to realize what a danger Erebor poses to me. I lost myself to its treasures once, if I return there to rule, it could easily happen again.”

It was a disturbing thought, and one Kíli did his best not to dwell on. Thorin was here, alive, comparatively well, and free of the curse. He wanted only to be grateful for that, not to fear that every promise that had just been made to him might still be broken when they returned to their reclaimed home.

“But I think,” Thorin continued, breaking through his reverie. “That, more than anything, it is because I have come to realize a home, no matter how grand, is worth nothing at all when you have no family to fill it.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

Fíli awoke in pain.

This was, in his considered opinion, a great deal better than not waking up at all. And he had been almost certain he wouldn’t. When those jagged teeth closed about his limb and did not let go he had been so convinced he was going to die. To wake, then, was wholly unexpected, and more than a little uncomfortable, but welcome regardless, even if his mind and body did not seem entirely in accord on that last thought. He groaned as he surfaced, hyper aware of every last, agonizing muscle in his body, then paused as a familiar voice addressed him in tentative welcome.

“Fi?”

That… he knew that voice. That was Kíli. But it couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be Kíli because Kíli was not here and safe and his little brother was _not_ going to be Bolg’s next plaything. That thought drove him onwards with all the momentum of a careening horse, and he opened his eyes long before they were ready for such an adjustment, his momentum stuttering and failing as he abruptly realized ‘here’ was not where ‘here’ had been before.

“Fíli?”

His brother’s voice was still cautious, probing, and so he convinced his unwilling neck muscles to turn his head, and blinked in somewhat bewildered surprise as Kíli all but fell out of his chair.

“You’re awake!” Kíli exclaimed as he crashed to his knees at Fíli’s bedside, one hand raised as though to grasp a hold of his brother, though it never made it quite that far, lingering instead just shy of touching. “You’re awake, you’re awake!”

Even in his half-aware state Fíli recognized the note of hysteria in those words, the almost crazed relief in his brother’s eyes, and knew that whatever had passed in the time he had been unconscious had surely been the cause of that look. He needed to know where he was. He needed to know what had happened. To himself and to his brother. He needed to find out where his uncle was. He needed… he needed… he needed to know why Kíli was wearing a set of clothes that looked like they belonged in nothing less than a royal setting.

“Kíli.” He was thirsty, and it was a struggle to get the words out, but he was determined. “What… what in Durin’s name… are you… are you _wearing_?”

Kíli’s laugh was one of wild abandon as he hurled himself forward onto Fíli’s chest, one arm wrapping around the prone dwarf as he buried his face in his elder brother’s shoulder. The jostling caused by the motion aroused a dozen aches Fíli had been quite happily ignoring, but he simply gritted his teeth and bore pain that was undoubtedly being dulled by some form of medication at present, more concerned by the fact he could feel the tremors wracking his sibling’s frame, the leftover remnants of a fear he knew all too well.

“I’m alright, Ki.” He was soon to be drifting again, he could already feel exhaustion rising to claim him, but he managed to raise one arm in defiance to the weariness that seemed to have come hand and hand with his pain, weakly returning Kíli’s one-armed embrace. “I’m alright.”

 


	22. Reflections of the Past and Present

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 22**

**_ Reflections of the Past and Present _ **

It was not often that Thorin found himself in possession of an idle moment. As Lord of Ered Luin he had never been wanting for a task to keep himself occupied, either in the governance of the settlement, or, when his sister’s face adopted that pinched, disapproving look that he knew preceded a scolding, in the teaching and training of his nephews. He was not one to welcome free time when it came, finding various ways to fill it, but here, in the middle of these lonely moors, in the hands of armed and capable warriors, he found himself with nothing to do with himself but reflect on the past. It had been a long road to this point, the chain of events that had spanned years and years having seen its roots in the fall of the King Beneath the Mountain, and culminating now as he stood atop the crumbling walls of Tol Ascarnen’s eastern parapets, gazing down into the courtyard below where his two nephews were seated, watching Eldalil and Alatair put Kilarin and young Ranlóm through their paces.

It was the furthest Fíli had managed to travel since awakening, alternating his weight between the crutches he was still growing used to and his brother’s ready arm. It had been days before Nárran had even been happy to allow Thorin’s heir to stand, let alone attempt walking, and even now the latter was a privilege to be withdrawn the moment it was attempted without aid. Fíli was a patient soul, but even he had been feeling the frustration of being cooped up inside for so long, and Thorin had not needed to be near to know his eldest nephew was wearing a grin a mile wide when he finally made it past the door’s threshold. It was no wonder, then, that the voices floating from the pair’s chosen spot were interwoven with laughter, the simple joy of being alive and together enough to momentarily banish the shadows that still haunted them both. The sound was a complete change from the mourning and tears that had so often followed the battles he had faced throughout his life, and he could not stop his mind from drifting to those older memories, the tragedies of the past a stark contrast to this present moment of respite.

On the day that Erebor fell he had spent the first few hours of chaos that followed the dragon's wrath believing both his siblings were dead. Frerin had still been several years away from his coming of age at the time, and Dís… Dís had still been a child. His little, golden haired sister lost to the inferno. Or so he had believed. Night had already fallen, the survivors gathered on the banks of the lake, when Dwalin appeared out of the shadows with both of Thorin’s younger siblings trailing in his wake. They had been on the mountainside when the dragon attacked, their path of descent blocked by felled stone, leaving them stranded until Dwalin was able to find a safe path down. He owed the lives of his kin to his friend, but Dwalin had refused any thanks, the protection of the royal family a task he considered his duty. Thorin had given them regardless, even as he joined the majority of Erebor's people in holding his family close, counting the blessing each breath they drew truly was.

But that had been before morning dawned. Before the full extent of Thror's grief over his gold became apparent. Before Thráin's crippling mourning over his wife's fiery death led the people to turn to their prince for answers, leaving Thorin to carry the weight of the mountain's loss alone. Balin and Dwalin, along with their father, had offered what aid they could, and Thorin knew the House of Fundin had proved its worth time and time again in the aftermath of Erebor's fall, but in truth it had been Frerin, his indomitable little brother, who had proven to be his most valuable supporter. The youngest prince of Thror’s line had often been an object of ridicule in the volatile realm of royal politics, mocked for his gentle and soft-spoken nature, or for his choice of more scholarly pursuits. But Frerin was kind-hearted, not the pusillanimous figure many believed him to be, and he had shown his mettle throughout the hardships Erebor’s people endured in the wild.

Thorin had been their leader from the moment both his sire and grandsire proved themselves unwilling to take on that role, the one to give the people direction and ensure they held on to hope, but Frerin was their confidante, personable and approachable to all, so that even the most reluctant souls would share their troubles with him. Troubles Frerin would then carry to Thorin, with his own insightful suggestions on how to ease the plight of Erebor’s exiled citizens as much as was possible in their all but indigent state. His brother had never been short of an encouraging word when it was needed, or a cautionary tale on the dangers of indulging in over serious thought for too many hours at once, and, in those first few years where Thorin was still adjusting to the responsibilities that had been thrust upon him without warning, such small offerings had been a lifeline.

Their partnership had been a seamless thing that only grew stronger when Dís was old enough to truly aid them, and the people of Erebor had been governed more by them three than the dwarf that bore the crown. Thorin mourned that loss, for he knew the great leader his grandfather had once been, and seeing the change in both Thror and Thráin could inspire in him nothing less than grief. Dís was too young to truly remember what Thror had been like before the slow madness began to take a hold, but she recognized the changes in their own father well enough, and reacted to it with gentle understanding and care. Frerin… Well, the strength of Frerin's reaction to the failures of their elders had surprised him, all the more so for the form it chose to take. In the years following Erebor's fall Thorin's younger brother came to hate Thror with a steady and vehement bitterness that did not abate with time, but rather festered until the day Thror sallied forth from the dark place his mind had been trapped in to set his sights on Moria.

Frerin's reaction to that had been nothing less than paroxysmal.

The falling out between prince and king had been both spectacular and final. Frerin had held back none of his contempt over Thror's failure to see to the needs of his people, and Thorin had finally realized that Frerin's hatred was on his behalf. That it was the burden _he_ had been made to carry that had created the exception in his brother's forgiving nature. It had been a bold effort on Frerin's part, but an ultimately fruitless one that led to nothing more than Thror placing Frerin elsewhere than at his side in the battlefield. Thorin's own more tactful efforts at persuasion had proven just as unsuccessful, and Moria had happened regardless of the desires of many. Thror's last command, adhered to by his people because they remembered the king he had once been to them, though it came close to ending both them and his family.

Thror’s illness had found its end in his beheading, Thráin had not been able to endure another loss, and Frerin... Frerin's fate he still considered to be one of his greatest failures. His brother had never been absent when Thorin had needed him, but, when the time had come to return the favour, he had not made it to his younger sibling’s side in time to do anything but grieve his death. Dís was all he had left in the aftermath, and the one thing he had sworn, in that moment as he stood above his brother's grave, that he would not lose.

Ered Luin had followed. The finding and founding of a long overdue sanctuary. They had not been the first to populate the ruins of the Blue Mountains, for lesser dwarves had been making a home there for years, but they were welcomed with open arms regardless, and offered the chance to build something that would not be almost instantly swept away by death and tragedy. Ered Luin had been a refuge, and, for the first time since losing Erebor, Thorin had found the weight of his responsibilities to be something less than crushing. Out in the wild he had constantly feared for his people's safety, knowing they always stood in danger of being attacked. Here that danger was abated, security offered in its place, and the effect that had on Erebor’s exiles was a wondrous thing to behold.

He was able to watch his people flourish again, their past not forgotten, but at least a bearable loss now. He saw the grief in the eyes of so many fade away, and a wary sense of peace take its place. He saw the anger that had overtaken his sister after Moria vanish into memory as she learned to smile again, and the small miracle that was the birth of his first nephew after she married. Ered Luin had been enough for Dís, a home she found wanting nothing, and Thorin might have learned to share that sense of contentment, had it lasted. But it _never_ lasted, and it was the death of yet another dear friend, a _brother_ , that had turned his heart against Ered Luin and the false sanctuary he saw it to be.

It was only a year after young Kíli's birth when tragedy struck again. When death intruded upon his sister's happiness, and stole a father from his sons. On the day that Nali Silvertongue passed it was Thorin who carried the news to his sister's door. He remembered clearly stepping across the threshold, passing from the vehement, winter air into the warmth and comfort of a well kept home, and hearing the sound of childish laughter as he strode along the hallway, the pain of death hanging upon his shoulders with more weight than the snow-laden cloak he had abandoned just inside the door. He remembered pausing in the doorway, watching his elder nephew employed in the involved and intricate task of keeping his baby brother occupied as the clink and clank of moving cutlery and the wafting scent of the evening meal drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by Dís' cheerful humming. He remembered wanting to turn around and walk back out again before the hard won happiness his family had finally come by was utterly destroyed, and being too late as Dís stepped out of the kitchen, a laden tray in hand, and smiled brightly as she saw him.

She had looked upon him with such warmth in that moment that he had not been able to find the words he needed to tell her, his tongue tied by the fresh memory of Nali turning to speak to him, infectious grin in place, only moments before the arrow pierced his chest, and shock flooded his visage as he fell to the ground. But Dís and Thorin had been all each other had for too many years for a lack of words to prevent the truth from pervading the air like acrid smoke, and Dís' joy had melted away as swiftly as the snow upon his tunic, her face turning pale as the tray slid from her hands to crash to the floor, her fingers covering her mouth instead as a broken sound escaped her lips.

He recalled crossing the space between them, enfolding his sister in a firm embrace and knowing he could not truly provide comfort for the seven years of marriage that would now never become something longer. The loss weighed on his own heart as well, another brother passed into Mahal's keeping, no less a part of Thorin's small family for the fact they had not shared blood. He had held Dís as she wept, unable to do the same, his own emotions still frozen somewhere between shock and anger, and he had startled along with her when Kíli, still yet a babe and uncomprehending of the cause of his mother's distress, began to wail in protest. Fíli had not been much older at the time, too young to fully understand, yet too old to not know, but he had reached for his brother nonetheless, gathering Kíli in his small arms and providing the support their mother could not give.

It had been a sign of the way the brothers' relationship would develop as they aged, the closeness they shared, and the support they unceasingly gave one another. Every hardship was faced by an united front, every obstacle surmounted through concerted effort, every failure evaluated by two pairs of eyes, and every success celebrated together. Thorin had always known their closeness was their greatest strength, even as he feared it would be their greatest weakness as well. They relied so heavily upon one another that it had seemed a certain thing if one faltered the other would fall alongside them, and he, knowing how swift and cruel death could be, had realized how this seemingly innocuous thing doubled the risk that his nephews would join the fallen. He had not wanted to bear witness to the death of yet another loved one, but so much had been taken from him by then that he had realized he had no more power over the fate of his sister-sons than he had had over any other whose life had slipped through his fingers.

He had always assumed it would be Kíli who fell first. Dís’ younger son was reckless, young, energetic, and such a strong reminder of his fallen father that it had been impossible not to draw the parallels invoked by painful memories. As such he had encouraged the protective streak Fíli had developed from an early age, even as he had feared what it might lead to. Because, though Kíli may fall first, he had known Fíli would follow. His eldest nephew was the protector, after all, playing the same role Thorin had failed to fulfil, and so it was a strange thing indeed to see the brothers' roles so radically reversed now.

Kíli _had_ fallen first, from grace, beneath the weight of his uncle's harsh words, and then again at Azog's hand. But Fíli had stumbled coming to Thorin's rescue, not his brother's, and it had been Kíli who stormed the very heart of enemy territory to get them out. Kíli who risked everything he possessed to see them safe. Kíli, who had displayed a devotion fit to touch even the hardest of hearts. A devotion that had caused him to ignore all signs that pointed to the fact his kinsmen were already dead, acting on faith alone against the advice and approval of all others, with no guarantee there would be any reward at the journey’s end.

Bilbo had been unashamedly forthcoming when it came to recounting the tale of their unlikely adventure in full. Where Kíli had been hesitant and reluctant in his account, Thorin had found the Company’s burglar a much more willing source of information, and had received nothing less than what the hobbit knew when he raised the subject between them. It was, in all honesty, an incredible tale, a story well worth remembering, for it spoke of all those values the exiled people of Erebor held most dear. But it had exacted a price from those wound up in its unfolding, a price not yet fully paid, for Kíli dreamt of exile and the death of those he loved, Bilbo bravely bore another memory formed of a darkness once entirely foreign to the Shireling, Fíli struggled with the crutches that were now his only means of independent movement, and Thorin wore his guilt about his shoulders like another cloak.

They had all been marked by what had happened, and the worst scars, he knew, were not always those visible to the eye.

He had known that before he set out on the road to Erebor, and, at the time he first announced his intentions to his family, he had planned to leave Kíli behind, determined not to repeat the mistakes that had led to his own younger brother's death. He had not predicted that this was the one matter on which Fíli would not bow to his uncle's ruling. ‘Both or neither’ had been his heir's unmoving ultimatum, and Thorin had been sorely tempted to leave them both with their mother, where it was safe. Dís deserved better than to lose her sons as well, he had reasoned, and such an act would ensure the continuity of the Line of Durin when all the dark forces in Middle Earth seemed bent on ending it. But Dís, his precious little sister, who had lost just as much as he, had joined him on the hillside outside their home, the fading sunlight setting her golden hair afire as she studied his face, read his intentions, and promptly told him he was wrong.

'You will need them,' was all she had said. 'They are your family, and you will need them.'

Faced now with the memories of all that had passed since they bade one another farewell, Thorin could not help but wonder if Dís had realized, even where he had not, that the greatest danger in reclaiming Erebor did not in fact lie in the act of killing the dragon, but rather in all that would follow. Had she known where the path he followed may lead in the end? Had she sent her sons into all but certain death to try and save him from that fate? From himself? From a sickness she had suffered beneath just as much as he? He did not know, and he sought the answers to that uncertainty in the past, knowing, even as he did so, that the only thing he was likely to find there was pain.

"You wear the face of a troubled mind." He had not heard Nárran approach, but that did not surprise him. The past days had taught him that the healer was unnaturally light-footed, and always in the exact spot where one least wanted him. Coming to stand beside him, the ranger followed his gaze to the gathering below, eyes alighting on the two dwarves that yet remained in his charge. "They are both doing well.”

“They are,” Thorin agreed softly. “But you did not climb all this way to tell me what I already know.”

"No," Nárran said with a resigned sigh. "But you will not like what I have to say.”

“I rarely do,” he answered casually.

“And rarely listen,” Nárran accused lightly. “Fortunately, I am accustomed to those who do not understand the value of cooperation. I am not here to speak with you of your own welfare, but rather your eldest nephew’s injury. You know already how serious that wound was, and the lasting consequences it will bear, but how much mobility he regains could well depend upon the manner in which his healing is managed. He will always walk with a bad limp, and will likely need aid to travel any great distance, but there is much that can be done to ease the severity of his affliction."

"And what advice would you give?" Thorin wondered aloud. "The advice you do not believe I wish to hear?”

Nárran's face betrayed the fact he suspected his answer would not be well received. "I would like to send you to Rivendell as soon as Fíli is strong enough to travel,” he said. “Lord Elrond is unquestionably the most skilled healer in Middle Earth. He would be able to provide a level of care that I cannot."

"Just because he is able to does not mean that he will." It was an instinctive reaction, an uncurling anger in the pit of his stomach, and he could not keep the growl out of his voice. His words earned him no softness from the man beside him, whose face and voice both hardened in response.

"The Last Homely House is an open sanctuary to all who are in need and are not servants of shadow," Nárran answered curtly. "I do not pretend to understand the grievances that stand between your kin and the majority of elven kind, but we are not speaking of a mere business arrangement here. Whether or not you choose to approach Lord Elrond for aid could be the difference between Fíli bearing weight upon that leg again or being confined to crutches and chairs for the rest of his life. I cannot force you to take any course of action, but it would be both selfish and cruel to deny either of your nephews the best chance of recovery they have."

It was not the first lecture he had received from the healer since falling into his charge, but where Nárran's other dire rants had been weighed and heeded or discarded upon the merit Thorin thought they might hold, this was a scolding he could not dismiss as a mere healer's prerogative. Nárran was speaking of the welfare of his nephews, neither of whom would walk away unscathed as he was, and the chance to make their injuries something less than they were now. He would be a fool to refuse on the basis of a grudge that had not even originated in Rivendell, and worse than a fool if he allowed his own ill feeling to cost his nephews the best care they could hope for. He had been a fool often enough already to know better this time, and so, pushing a grudge that he had carried with him for decades to the back of his mind, he gazed up at his tall companion and spoke.

"How soon can he travel?"

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

"You need a name," Fíli said, and Kíli, attention torn from the sparring match before him, turned to look at his brother in confusion.

"What?"

"You know." Fíli waved one hand in an encompassing gesture, the other clutching the ankle of his folded leg, the awkward, splinted bulk of his other, injured limb stretched out across the grass. "A name. You can't very well live through an adventure such as this and come out of it without some sort of grand title."

Kíli had never thought of his exploits as an adventure. To him, they had been more of a nightmare, and he certainly did not need a lasting reminder of such beyond those that already existed. "Fíli, I don’t think…”

"Shush," Fíli admonished him before he could go any further, ignoring his younger sibling’s frown. "I'm thinking."

Kíli rolled his eyes, turning back to the rangers’ friendly competition. Fíli was not so easily deterred, however, and continued despite his brother’s reaction.

"Kíli Stoutheart?" he ventured, frowning even as he said it. "Too common," he decided aloud, before Kíli could utter a single word. "Kíli Quickarrow?"

Kíli shot his brother a scowl of disapproval, but Fíli was grinning, with absolutely no intention of stopping.

"Kíli Wargbane?" he suggested. "Kíli Hardhead? Dwalin would love that one."

“Then why not give it to him?” Kíli retorted. “Honestly, Fíli, I don’t need…”

"Kíli Kinsaver," Fíli interrupted, and this time there was no grin to accompany the words, but rather a sincere and steady regard, even as Fíli’s words remained light. "I like the sound of that one. Nice and heroic."

Kíli shook his head, speaking in exasperation to cover his unease, “You are an idiot.”

“And so are you,” Fíli retorted calmly. “I can’t believe I had to ask Bilbo to find out what happened, all because you refused to tell me anything as if it was all some shameful secret. You saved us, Kíli. You saved us both, and I’m tired of you trying to pretend like that isn’t something you should be proud of.”

Kíli did not have an answer for that, for how was he to explain to Fíli the conflicting emotions that haunted him even now? The lingering guilt he felt for having abandoned Erebor and its people. The frantic fear that had driven him to keep going even when his body screamed for a respite, and which still struck him sometimes in the middle of the night, when he awoke believing it had all been a dream, and that both his brother and uncle were dead. The trepidation that seized him without cause or reason at times when he stood in his uncle’s presence, the memory of the anger that had masked Thorin’s features overlaying the kindness and consideration that was all he had been treated with since. He did not even know the reason his ordeal continued to torment him without relent, only that it did, and that he could feel only relief, not pride, for the way in which it had ended.

“Kíli.” Fíli’s gentle probing drew him from his thoughts, and he lifted his gaze from where it had fallen to meet his brother’s honestly concerned expression. “Are you alright?”

Kíli stared at him a moment, disbelieving. “Am _I_ alright…?”

“I _know_ what happened to me,” Fíli interrupted with a little too much force, cutting him off before he could say something thoughtless and tactless that he would later regret. “I know, alright? I’m not going to lie and say that I wasn’t scared. That it wasn’t absolutely terrifying and that it isn’t a memory I will likely take to my grave. Because it was and is all those things, Ki. But I wasn’t the one Thorin exiled. I wasn’t the one who had to face that battle alone. I wasn’t the one accused of madness for believing that you weren’t dead. I wasn’t the one who travelled half-way across Middle Earth with no proof I had reason to. But I _am_ your brother, and I know you too well to believe that nothing is wrong. I understand if you don’t want to tell me…”

“Why would I not want to tell you?” Confused, Kíli tilted his head to study Fíli’s face, trying to understand why the one person who had forever been his confidante would say such a thing.

“I was in Erebor as well,” Fíli reminded him gently, regret in his voice. “But I never helped you. I left you to face Thorin alone, and even when I tried to stop him I didn’t try hard enough.”

He had never really thought of the part Fíli’s own fall had played in his banishment, despite the fact the only reason he had gone along with Bilbo’s plan was because of his brother. That fact had been forgotten, though, buried along the way by other worries and painful memories, so that no mention had been made of it when his elder brother awoke. Fíli had clearly not forgotten, though Kíli doubted he could have made a great deal of difference by the time the Arkenstone was shown before the wall. Thorin had been too far gone to heed what anyone said by that point, even his own heir.

“He wouldn’t have listened.”

“He might have,” Fíli argued, shifting his stare away from Kíli’s own, though there was not enough focus in his gaze for anything else to have truly caught his attention. “He listened later. It wasn’t just seeing you hurt that changed his mind. Knowing you were out there on the battlefield was enough. You were the reason, the real reason, he agreed to join the fight. I’m not sure he would have done it had it only been Dain’s life at stake.”

“He doesn’t like Dain,” Kíli pointed out, and something like satisfaction flashed in his brother’s eyes.

“Exactly,” he said. “But he cared enough about you to overcome the gold sickness and walk out of that mountain, so maybe you could stop flinching every time he comes near. He’s not going to banish you again, Kíli, he’s just not.”

“I know that.” And he did, logically, because Thorin had made a promise, and his uncle was not one to lightly break his word. He knew, he just…

“Then try to _believe_ it,” Fíli suggested, effortlessly honing in on the root of the problem. “And if you can’t manage that then just remember I’m not going to let you go wandering off into exile on your own. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life, little brother, bad leg and all.”

“Don’t you mean bad _temper_ and all?” Kíli corrected him innocently, his face adopting a guileless expression that earned him an affronted look from his brother

“I do not have a bad temper.”

“Tell that to Nárran,” Kíli dared him. “Or Ana. Or anyone else who came near you these past few days.”

“That doesn’t count,” Fíli insisted. “I claim clemency through exceptional circumstances.”

“And it is granted, just this once.” Both young dwarves looked up at Ana’s interruption, the woman smiling at them in open amusement even as she crouched to set down the tray bearing their luncheon meal. "Nárran felt certain you would not wish to come back inside just yet,” she said, ignoring Fíli’s scowl as she unfolded the blanket that had been tucked beneath her arm and spread it across his lap. “So you have his permission to eat out here, provided you stop ‘accidentally’ stepping on toes with those crutches.”

“It was accidental,” Fíli assured her. “The first few times, anyway.”

“I have no doubt.” Ana gave him a sidelong glance, still smiling, before turning to Kíli. "Mithrandir has returned,” she informed him. “He is asking for you.”

Kíli was already halfway to his feet before reality slapped him harshly in the face and he stopped, turning to glance questioningly at his brother.

“Go.” Fíli waved away his concern. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes. Just don’t be too long, or I might eat your share as well.”

 


	23. A Family Made Whole

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 23**

**_ A Family Made Whole _ **

 

Riches had been the ruin of the Line of Durin.

There was not a home they had lost that's fall could not be attributed in some way to the greed and lust treasure awoke in the hearts of dwarven kings. Moria had fallen because its occupants delved too deep. Ered Mithrin had drawn the cold drakes to its rich caverns. And Erebor... Erebor had been a tantalizing treat hung before the eyes of a ravenous beast. It was for this reason that Dís had decided, long, long ago, before her grandfather's death and Frerin's murder, before Moria and another layer of ice between her brother and the world, before Nali's mischievous smile and her eldest son's first cries, that treasure was not worth the grief it brought.

They had all been young when Erebor fell, she and her brothers, but she had been the youngest, nine years her elder brother's junior and a child still in the eyes of her people. She remembered so little of the realm in which she had been born, a faint impression of golden light and security, bereft of the uncertainty, cold, and hunger she more readily knew. But she did not miss it. Not the way her elders did. Not the way Thorin did. Instead she listened to the sorrows of those around her, to the vicious anger that did not seem a rightful part of Frerin's gentle nature, and she drew her own conclusions about their home and the wealth that lay there. Not wealth, in truth, but a trap, meant to ensnare and destroy and harm.

After Erebor fell, Thorin had grieved the loss of friends and the sanity of his kin, but her eldest brother had been an heir of the mountain for too long to not also mourn the loss of the kingdom. Dís did not blame him for that. She was certain she would have missed Erebor as well, had she not had so few memories and far greater treasures to replace it with. She saw nothing wrong with living in a home alongside her people, in toiling in her own kitchen and keeping her own house. She was their princess, their golden jewel, but she was also one of them, and she wished for nothing more than that. But it was different for Thorin, who remembered more clearly what was lost, and never found full contentment in that which had replaced it. He had wanted more for her than a humble house on the hillsides of Ered Luin, a better life for his nephews than to inherit a legacy of toil and trade with those who treated Erebor's royalty as common merchants and hired escorts, and Dís had never been quite able to convince him that what they had was enough.

It was for this very reason that, when Thorin returned from Bree with plans to take back Erebor, Dís had known the only thing keeping her from smashing a certain wizard over the head with her largest frying pan was the fact he was not present. She had been furious at Gandalf. Livid at the wizard's assumption he could plant such an idea in her brother's head and tear her world apart on a whim. Erebor was a curse that had hung over her family for too long. It had driven her grandfather mad, had stolen so much from her father he could not bear further losses, had started the events that had ended in Frerin's death, and now... now it threatened to steal Thorin from her as well.

Thorin had spoken of reclaiming their home. Of safety and the birthright that had been stolen from his nephews. Of a lost heritage that had not yet slipped too far from reach to be reclaimed. All Dís had been able to think of was the mountain's treasures, her thoughts straying treacherously to what would happen when Thorin's noble intentions were forgotten the moment a more material prize was in sight. She had immediately rebuked herself for thinking ill of her own beloved brother, but she knew the hold Erebor had on Thorin, the shadow that had never truly abandoned him, and she had feared what that hold might become. Feared that home and safety would become riches and power, and that she would relive her grandfather’s fall with the one at the helm of the madness this time her own brother.

Putting her foot down on the matter had achieved nothing but a cataclysmic shouting match she was certain Dain must have heard from the Iron Hills. Fíli and Kíli had kept their heads down for days, and the fact the argument had lasted that long had been a sharp, strickening reminder that those who would have once stepped into the midst of the duel and smoothed ruffled feathers were now gone. Frerin had been an excellent peacekeeper when his siblings came to blows, and Nali had not earned his second name for nothing, but they were both gone now, and there was no one to set things right between them but themselves.

In the end there had been no apologies spoken, no need for explanations on either side. Thorin had simply come in one evening and sat down at the table, and Dís had silently joined him, each listening to the other as reasons and feelings were openly voiced. The relief on her sons' faces when they came home to find their mother and uncle reconciled again had been most amusing, but it had not lightened the weight that settled in her heart that evening, nor her dread over what was surely coming next.

She had known Thorin would want to take Fíli with him, just as she had known Fíli would never agree to such without his brother at his side. He was Thorin's heir, after all, her eldest, and the kingdom to be reclaimed was to be his with time, a kingdom he had been taught to miss even though he had never dwelt within it. Fíli's ultimatum had given her hope, the chance her sons need not be a part of this recklessness, and, perhaps if they stayed, Thorin would also... It had been foolishness, of course. Foolishness on her part to think her brother could be swayed, and foolishness on his to think his nephews would stay if commanded.

It would not have been betrayal, to stay behind, but the loyalty and love her boys possessed for their uncle would have made it seem nothing less in their eyes. To remain in Ered Luin as Thorin marched into danger for their sakes as much as anyone else's, with toymakers and tinkers at his side, but not his own kin? Even had they stayed in Ered Luin as commanded she knew they would consider their omission as nothing less than a mark of shame, and, were Thorin to die in the effort, then they would have carried the weight of not being there for the rest of their lives.

That was no reason to let them go, perhaps, and every motherly instinct she possessed had railed against the very idea. They were her children, after all, Nali's legacy, and the foremost pieces of her heart. But Thorin was also her brother, who shouldered too much and carried too many and tried to do it all alone to spare his family the same. She had been torn, desperately wishing for something – preferably a grey bearded wizard – to take her frustration out on, with no idea which choice was the right one, or if there even was one.

It had been Fíli who decided for her. Fíli, who was as much a reminder of his fallen uncle as Kíli was of his father. Fíli, who had sat down beside her and taken her hand in his as blue eyes that were a reflection of his father’s gazed back at her with solemn sincerity.

'If we do not go,' he had said, calmly and steadily and reasonably. 'Are we not already admitting defeat?'

He meant more than that, she knew. Meant that to hesitate now, after the stories he and his brother had been raised upon, would not simply shame them in their own minds, but would cast a pall of doubt over Thorin's own belief in this venture. If they were seen to doubt... If Thorin's own kinsmen, his own heir, did not see any hope of success, then what chance did he have of procuring aid elsewhere? Thror's line was already held in contempt by others, and Fíli had been too keen a study beneath Balin to not know his and Kíli's exclusion would give rise to scrutiny. Thorin's chances of garnering support from the Seven were slim enough as it was, but Fíli's determination to be a part of the quest had been more than that. It had been an expression of faith, of support, because her eldest son had been raised to rule, and so saw the doubts and uncertainties Thorin did his best to conceal, even from his family.

She knew they existed, for she had seen them form. Fíli knew they existed because he probably shared half of them, and could make a decent guess at the rest.

She had listened to her eldest child's words, spoken and unspoken, and had made the decision she knew may later break her heart. They were her children, and she loved them, but she also could not face the idea of letting her brother walk into the darkness alone. He did that too often already, and Balin and Dwalin were close friends and comrades, but they were not family. They were not that for which Thorin would never stop fighting ‘til his last breath. They were not that which could banish the shadows of the past completely, if only for a few hours, and keep his eyes focused on a future that held something other than grief.

And so, against every shred of common sense she possessed, she had given her permission. She had told Thorin to take them. She had stood upon the doorstep and bid both her sons goodbye. Had watched them leave the safety of the only home they had ever known. Time had passed – Days? Weeks? Months? It felt like _years_ – without word, but she had carried on, doing her duties in Thorin's place, never bowing to the worry that gripped her day in and day out.

And then a raven landed upon her windowsill.

She had known, before the messenger even began to speak, that the ancient creature did not bring good news, and, if some of the words were not formed of dire tidings, those that followed proved her instincts were true. 'Smaug is dead' were the first words she heard. Joyous news to any being in Middle Earth, but all the more so to the exiles who had been driven from their home by the beast's cruelty. Erebor was theirs again, reclaimed against all odds, but not without a price. Victory had been brought with the lives of her brother and eldest son, alongside countless others as they fought a danger none had foreseen. But she still had Kíli. Fate had again left her with a sustaining morsel, and so Thráin's daughter had set her chin and done her duty, preparing Ered Luin for what was still to come. Not all its residents wished to leave, the elderly and young more inclined to wait until after winter to brave such a long journey, but Dís readied those who were willing, intent on accompanying the first wave of returning exiles, so that she might be there for the son she had left.

But then the second raven had come, with news she had not been prepared for, and Dís had listened in horror to every word. Kíli was gone from the safety of the mountain, vanished into thin air, and, Balin feared, was headed for nothing less than his death. That was where she had drawn the line. Where fate and duty had been bidden a curt farewell, and Ered Luin's care placed in the hands of another.  She would have left that very instant, unaccompanied and unassisted, had it not been for the staying hand of steadier minds. When she had at last set forth it had been with only one companion, and with every intention of throttling her youngest child as soon as she found him.

As it was, she had been quite prepared to throttle the wizard who found her instead, stayed only by his solemn promise that her son was safe, and indeed near enough to have made her swift march across Eriador more than justified. Even then she treated him with a cool disdain that would have made Thorin proud, their journey into the Ettenmoors made in an absolute silence that was broken only by the warm welcome they received upon their arrival at the rangers' temporary outpost.

Gandalf had only to speak a few quiet words to the woman who greeted them, and then she was gone, leaving Dís alone, save for her solitary guard, with Gandalf and a halfling. _The_ halfling, she realized a few sentences into proper conversation. The Company's burglar. Thorin had spoken only a little of Gandalf's involvement prior to his departure, but Dís remembered well enough her brother's carefully calm dubiousness as to the wizard's choice of a fourteenth member. She shared no such sentiment now, looking upon the hobbit for the first time and seeing the familiar signs of a book that had long since outgrown its cover.

She had no chance to engage the unlikely burglar in conversation, however, for no sooner had introductions been made then a voice called from the top of the steps in a cheerful hale. Turning with the rest of those gathered she froze, heart pounding in her chest, breath escaping her in a single, heartfelt utterance.

"Kíli..."

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Fíli waited until Kíli was out of sight, then let his smile fade away into a grimace, one hand reaching to rub his aching leg before memory caught up with him and he pulled his hand back, knowing the gesture would only make it worse. Aching was all his leg seemed capable of now, nerves still fully functional despite the fact muscle and bone had been damaged beyond his body's ability to fully heal, and Nárran could only do so much to dampen the pain.

He knew he had been lucky. That their captivity could have been so much worse had Bolg not been in such a rush to reach safe ground.  That the Orc captain's desire to torment Thorin with the most brutal and bloody death he could conjure had spared Fíli from Bolg's even more depraved attentions. He had almost been ripped apart, and he had been _lucky_. Just... not lucky enough.

The competition that had first drawn him and his brother to this part of the fort was over now, staves replaced in their rightful home as Ranlóm beamed and grinned beneath the praise of his elders, even as Kilarin teasingly complained he had struck his partner with his blows more often than his enemies. The sight brought back memories of his own training with Kíli, along with the sure and certain knowledge he would never be capable of the same again. That thought was entertained for only a moment before he shoved it to the back of his mind, confined to the realm of the unimportant, walled in by the absolute belief his injury would not stop him from doing the duty he had always considered his most important.

Fíli was a scion of the Line of Durin, the heir to Thorin Oakenshield, the future lord of Ered Luin, and a rightful claimant to the throne of Erebor. But, above all else, he was an elder brother, and it was the failures and mistakes he had made in that role that stayed with him more than the others. Kíli had not made it an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, and Fíli had only been just starting his arms training the first time his brother put himself in perilous danger. He had had nightmares for weeks afterwards, dreams of Kíli's dark head vanishing beneath the black flood of the swollen river, and the white hue to his skin when Thorin pulled him out. It was the first time he had seen open terror on his uncle's face, and the first time he had found himself on the receiving end of the dwarf lord's ire. He had protested later to his mother that he had not even known Kíli was following him. That if he had realized he would never have... Dís had simply looked at him with a sorrowful expression, one hand resting on her sleeping youngest's damp locks as she spoke.

_'He was once an older brother too._ '

_Once an older brother._ The words had stuck with him, for they presented the possibility of no longer _being_ an older brother, and Fíli could not imagine his life without his sibling's presence in it. He had taken them to heart, along with his uncle's rebuke, and had spent the years that followed doing his best to keep his irrepressible brother out of trouble without being accused of smothering him, even if, sometimes, that meant diving headlong into mischief with him and facing the punishment shoulder to shoulder. He had done well, he thought. Well enough that, when Thorin raised the matter of Erebor and posed the suggestion of leaving Kíli behind, his uncle had believed Fíli's promise that he would not falter in his duties now.

Thorin had trusted that Fíli would not allow Kíli to fall as his own brother had, and Fíli had betrayed that trust the moment he allowed Erebor's power to hold sway over him. Just as Thorin had broken his own promise to his sister when he measured the worth of his gold as more than the value of his kin, Fíli's unspoken oath had been utterly shattered when he left Kíli to face the danger of the curse alone. He had let his brother down. He had let himself down, and he was angry. Angry that, after all this time, he had nearly lost Kíli through sheer greed.

Such thoughts and memories had haunted him over the days following his awakening. Days when he was confined to his bed with strict instructions he was not to move from it more often than was absolutely necessary. His forced respite had given him time to ponder, time to think on all that had happened, and time to observe the changes in those around him. He could draw only one conclusion from what he saw, and that was the simple realization that his family was a broken wreck.

Thorin was all but tiptoeing around both his nephews, his guilt, not just over his treatment of Kíli, but also the injuries both brothers bore that he did not, was writ plain as day across his face whenever he looked at them. Fíli longed to point out that Thorin could hardly claim responsibility for the latter misfortune, for they had walked into battle, and that was always a game of chance from which one should simply be grateful to emerge alive. Thorin was not ready to hear it, though, so Fíli held his peace, as adept at reading his uncle as he was his brother.

His very troubled brother.

Kíli had always possessed a terrible habit for lingering on past mistakes. He would learn from them, certainly, but he lacked the ability to simply move forward once the event was over and done. His fits of brooding over every perceived lack had been frustrating when they were younger, but when his sibling applied the same philosophy to the present situation it became a more serious matter than just a lingering mass of disappointment and self-reproach. Kíli could not let go of the what-ifs and could-have-beens, and, instead of second-guessing the things he had done that had gone wrong, he was now doubting the decisions made that had gone _right_. His brother should have been proud of what he had achieved, but instead Fíli had eventually been forced to demand the full story from Bilbo as Kíli fidgeted and flinched in the background, looking for all the world as if he expected their uncle, sitting in silent observation in the corner of the room, to speak up in reprimand at any moment.

He was doing his best to fix that, to make his family whole again, but Kíli was being strangely unreceptive and Thorin spent as much time avoiding his nephews as he did keeping them company. There was a part of Fíli that wanted to seize both his brother and his uncle just to knock their stubborn heads together, but, whilst it might ease his frustration a little, he doubted the act would actually solve anything.

Sighing, he retrieved one of the cooling bowls of stew Ana had brought him, suitably grateful for the fact Nárran had declared solid food an acceptable form of nourishment again. There was, after all, only so much gruel and broth one could eat before the sight of it made one want to hurl it out the window. Though, come to think of it, he probably would have had to ask Kíli to do it for him, weak as he had been those first few days.

"I do not know whether to be relieved or worried to see that look in your eyes again."

Fíli jumped, almost spilling his meal across his lap, then tilted his head to peer up at his uncle.

"What look?"

"The one that normally heralds some form of mischief or another," was Thorin's answer, to which Fíli grinned. "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough." He shrugged. “I mean, _alive_ is definitely an improvement on what I was expecting to be, so…”

“Fíli…” It was only one word, just his name, but it wiped the smile from his face as he lowered his gaze to his lap, sucking in a sharp breath before raising it again.

“I’m alright,” he said slowly. “Really, I _am_ alright. It’s an… Maybe it’s not the best possible outcome, but it wasn’t the worst either, and I’m just grateful… I’m grateful we’re all still here, and that’s… that’s enough for now.”

Thorin continued to watch him for a moment, judging the truth of his words, before giving an accepting nod. Fíli waited a beat, hoping his uncle might share some of his own thoughts, but when Thorin did not speak again it fell to Fíli to breach the silence.

“I am worried, though.” Idly, he stirred his spoon through his cooling meal. “About Kíli.”

The look he received from Thorin then was a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “As I am sure he is about you,” he answered. “Sometimes I cannot help but wish you would both spend a little more time thinking of your own welfare, rather than each other’s.”

“I’m his brother,” Fíli retorted adamantly. “His older brother. It’s my job.” Realization dawning, he narrowed his eyes in accusation. “And you didn’t say there _wasn’t_ anything to be worried about.”

“Because I cannot,” Thorin agreed mildly. “Your brother has been through an ordeal, you both have, and sometimes these events leave a lingering mark. He needs time, Fíli. As do we all. These past few months have been…”

“I don’t think there’s a word for what these past few months have been,” Fíli sighed, setting his half-eaten meal aside and running his hands through his tangled locks. “How did we even get here? And how do we get back?”

“We don’t,” came his elder’s reply. “There is no going back.”

He glanced up at his uncle, trying to read the expression on his face. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Thorin looked down at him, one corner of his lips lifting in a half-smile. “Maybe it is.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

“Gandalf!”

Kíli all but bounced down the last few steps into the entrance hall, approaching the wizard with a broad grin on his face, more pleased to see their former guide than Thorin would probably have approved of. The wizard and the hobbit he had been addressing both turned at his greeting, but it was the flash of gold that made him pause, a pair of familiar, dark eyes bearing into his own in shock.

He paused with one foot on the floor and the other lingering on the last step, the word that escaped his lips a disbelieving question. “Ma?”

“Kíli…” His mother’s voice was a whisper, her face ashen, and before he could do or say anything more she had crossed the space between them, seizing both his arms just above the elbow. "What were you _thinking_ , you foolish boy?" she demanded, all but shaking him as she spoke through her tears of anger and relief. The anger lasted only a second before an all too familiar euphoric joy replaced it, her next words less a scolding than a fearful realization. "You're all I have left, Kíli, and I almost lost you as well."

"I'm sorry, ma." He hadn't thought of her when he left Erebor. He hadn’t thought of anyone besides himself and his missing kin, and that was another guilt he now had to bear as he wrapped his arm about her and held her close. "I'm so sorry."

"You had better be," she half laughed the words, relief choking her voice as she fiercely returned his one-armed embrace. "Oh, my precious child. My dear, dear boy."

"I'm alright," he said, knowing she needed the reassurance. "We all are."

"All?" Dís pulled away, wonder in her face, and he realized suddenly that, whatever Gandalf had told her to bring her here, he hadn’t told her everything. "Kíli...?"

"I found them, ma." He was crying himself now, grinning wildly at the same time, his heart light and soaring. "I found them. They're alive. They're _alive_."

It was a glorious feeling to share that news with someone else. To know that, for all the wrongs and failures he had committed, he had at least managed to make this one thing right, and, in that brief moment where he saw his mother’s face slowly light up with such hope and wonder, he had no regrets.

“Fíli?” Dís asked, voice wavering. “And… and Thorin?”

“Yes.” He nodded, seizing her hand in his own as she released him from her suddenly lax hold “Yes. They’re alright, ma, they’re fine. They… we… We made it. We all made it.”

“But the ravens said…” Dís hesitated, having believed the lie too long to readily accept the truth.

“Perhaps you would like to see the proof with your own eyes,” Gandalf suggested gently, earning the attention of both dwarves.

“You _knew_?” Dís accused him, bristling. “And you did not think to tell me?”

“Kíli deserved to tell you himself,” was the wizard’s calm reply. “It was his doing, after all.”

Dís’ gaze travelled back to her son, her eyes searching his own with the insight of one who had known him from his infant days, before she reached out and enfolded him in her arms again. It was instinctual to return that hold, to tuck his head down and bury his face in her shoulder, relishing the comforting scent of hearth and home.

“Well done,” she whispered, two words, simpler than most of the praise he had received for his efforts, but, bearing all the relief and love of a mother whose worst fears had almost been realized, those two words meant so much more. “Well done.”

 


	24. The Unseen War

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 24**

**_ The Unseen War _ **

 

It started snowing that afternoon, a mid-winter flurry, late in coming, but all the more vehement for its belated arrival. Thorin watched the storm build from behind one of the upstairs windows, isolated in a room away from both his family and the few other individuals he knew well enough to call friends residing beneath Tol Ascarnen’s ancient roof, with no company save for his own thoughts. He was aware enough of his state of mind to know this was perhaps not an ideal situation, to leave himself to the mercy of his self-reproach and recrimination, but for the present his dark thoughts were a less daunting prospect than facing his sister and explaining to her the completeness of his failure.

He had not yet had to answer to anyone who did not already know the full extent of his crimes. Kíli had been on the receiving end of the worst of his behaviour, and Fíli had borne witness. Both had extended a forgiveness he knew he had not earned, even if the words they offered were not wholly backed by their actions, but he had not had to tell them of his failures. He had not had to describe the exact manner in which he had descended into madness, for they had seen it for themselves, and they had known exactly what it was for which he was apologizing. It was different with his sister. Dís did not know, she could not, for Balin would never have thought to impart the full tale except in person, and so of course he had been greeted with the same warmth and relief with which Dís enveloped her sons. She did not yet realize he did not deserve such generosity from her, and he was dreading the moment when she discovered the truth, even if her reaction would surely be nothing more than was his due.

It was for that reason he had chosen to withdraw as soon as the initial reunion had passed, allowing Dís the time alone she needed with her children, and himself the opportunity to brace for her fury once she learned what had truly happened. It was dark before she came searching for him, night come early as the wind howled and the swirling snow pounded against the window pane. The soft click of the door opening and closing behind him announced her presence, though Thorin did not turn to acknowledge her, keeping his gaze on the obscured courtyard outside as Dís crossed to stand beside him in silence. Her eyes darted across the scene that seemed to have captured his attention, and she spoke only when she found nothing worthy of interest lingering outside the window.

“You have been spending too much time with Nori,” she said. “Lurking in the dark like a vagabond.” He did not grace that comment with a response, and Dís continued, “You could have joined us.”

It was not a rebuke so much as an invitation to explain his absence, but Thorin was not yet ready to broach that particular topic, so instead did his best to steer the conversation away from it.

“How are the lads?”

“Both sleeping.” Dís’ smile was fond, but also exhausted, worn by the worry she had surely carried in her heart right until the moment she was offered physical proof she need no longer fear. “It would seem they find their mother to be tedious company.”

It was a jest, he knew, but he felt compelled to refute it regardless. “They were both more themselves after you arrived than they have been for days.”

Dís made a small sound of acknowledgement, pinning him with an acutely assessing gaze. “They are worried about you.”

He did not deserve their concern, nor did he need it, and he barely paused before telling her as much. “They should not be. I am fine.”

It was a sound of disbelief that escaped his sister’s lips this time. “Were it either of them claiming the same right now, you would already have taken them to task for their dishonesty. You look terrible, Thorin."

He frowned, finally turning to face her, reading the scepticism in her expression. “I am uninjured.”

“And the furthest from fine I have seen you in years,” she answered without missing a beat, and he turned away. Dís did not allow that withdrawal, however, laying a hand on his arm and waiting until he summoned the courage to face her again before speaking. "Thorin, talk to me, please. I need to know…” This time it was she who glanced away, her eyes dropping downwards, before rising to meet his own again. “I need to know you are still you.”

Her words were soft, gentle almost, not the righteous fury he had expected, but he drew a sharp breath regardless. “Did they…” He did not know how to ask, and at last settled upon the most direct question he could manage. “Did Fíli and Kíli tell you?”

He was ashamed to admit it would be a relief if they had. If they had spared him the torment of having to tell his sister how far he had fallen. The pain of seeing the disappointment and disgust his actions had surely earned him.

“Oh, Thorin.” She sighed, and it was such a weary sound, an exhale of worry and grief and sorrow as she moved her hands to cradle his face, holding his gaze to her own. “They did not have to. It is written in your eyes.”

Of course it was. He had never been able to guard his thoughts from Dís. Not since Frerin passed, and they became for some time the one thing the other had. He knew he ought to offer her something anyway, the full story his eyes could not tell even if they betrayed the vital truth his worst fears had been realized, but it was a struggle to find the words. “I failed you, Dís, I am sorry…”

“Hush,” she said, and the word was a command. “Listen to me, Thorin, just listen. That treasure and the sickness it carries has been a curse to this family since before I was born. I know what it did to grandfather, what it did to our father. I watched with you as it slaughtered our people, murdered our brother, and left us both standing in the devastation that was all that was left in its wake. But it never touched me. What it wrought caused me grief, but I never felt the shadow of the curse itself, even as I knew that you had not escaped so unscathed.”

“I was weak.”

Dís’ face twisted with that look she so often wore when she was considering slapping him. Lost in his misery, he almost wished she would.

“ _No_.” The word was flat and final, her gaze fierce. “I am not finished, Thorin, and you _will_ listen. It is true that I did not want you to return to Erebor because of the curse as much as the dragon. Because I feared you to be as likely felled by one as the other, and I could not bear to lose you to either.”

“You were wiser than I,” he admitted quietly. “You knew I was not strong enough…”

“It is not about strength,” Dís snapped in exasperation, before visibly reigning in her temper. "Thorin, I am quite certain you did not invite the madness in to make a home inside your head, and that means you fought it.” He flinched, but Dís was ruthless. “It attacked you, as any enemy would. It pushed and pushed until it found a way in, just as it did with grandfather, but you did not surrender when it had you as he did. You kept fighting until you won.”

It was a noble thought, if sadly untrue. "Dís, you were not there. You cannot know…”

“I _do_ know,” she countered him boldly. "I know because you are standing here before me, as my brother, not some spectre whose mind is no longer his own. Grandfather never returned, Thorin. The gold had him in its grasp right until the very end, until he had almost ruined us all.”

“I nearly did the same.” If he closed his eyes, he could still see Azog’s mace crushing Kíli in a single blow. The warg’s teeth ripping into Fíli’s leg as his heir screamed in terror. The fate he had helped carve for them both.

“But you did not,” his sister reminded him steadily. “Because you faced the same darkness that took Thror and , and you _defeated_ it, Thorin. You lost the battle, perhaps, but you won the war, and that is what truly matters.”

“No.” He shook his head, ignoring the slightly desperate edge to Dís’ every word. “It is not… Dís, what I did… I tried to _execute_ Kíli.” Dís’ face paled, her reassuring touch vanishing as she stepped back, shock overriding her every other emotion. “That is not a victory, sister. That is not even…”

“That was not you.” He stopped, startled by the words, all the more so because Dís was stepping closer again, staring up at him, not with rage or disgust, but that determined expression she wore when absolutely certain he was wrong. "Thorin, you _love_ those boys. You helped me raise them after Nali… after Nali passed. You have never failed them when they needed you, you have always been there, and if you think you are capable of even entertaining the idea of harming either of them without some form of evil twisting your mind then you are a fool.”

“But it _was_ me, Dís,” he protested. “It was my hands, my words, my actions…”

"I do not believe that." She was adamant, arms folded across her chest as she stubbornly set her chin. "And neither should you."

"It is the truth, Dís," he insisted.  

"No, it is not." She shook her head. "It is no more the truth than the tales of Thror leading his people to their deaths, for you and I both know the King who gave that command was not our grandfather. The person he used to be, the wise and just ruler of Erebor, was consumed long before we drew near the Misty Mountains. And do not tell me you do not believe that, because I know you do. Frerin hated Thror, and he had no real love for our father either, but you never shared his feelings. You treated them both with respect even when they did not deserve it. You followed Thror when no one would have blamed you for wresting the crown from his hands and claiming Erebor's people as your own. Why, Thorin? Why did you and so many others risk throwing your lives away simply because grandfather asked you to? The answer is _because_ he asked you to. Because you remembered what Frerin did not. That Thror had once been a good King before the madness turned him into something else.  Because even then there were those who hoped Thror would overcome the dark creature that had claimed his mind, would fight his way to the surface. Because he was still there, Thorin, somewhere, beneath the madness, there was still a King, a father, a grandfather. He just... never found his way out again. It was that king you followed, not Thror the Mad, but the Thror of old. The Thror who would never have risked his people so carelessly, just as you would never have threatened the wellbeing of either of your nephews."

"It was still me, Dís," he told her quietly, each word a weight of its own. "I was not... not possessed."

"Were you not?" Her dark eyes bore into his own searchingly, the question sharp and probing. "A pall of evil descends upon your mind and drives you to execute a child you have only ever cherished, and you think you were _not_ being controlled by some dark power?"

"It is not that simple."

"Yes, it is," she persisted. "There is a curse on that treasure. Something dark, something evil, and you were its instrument. It used you as it willed, but you overcame it, and that, dear brother, is all that matters."

"I should never have succumbed in the first place," he objected, and Dís pinned him with a dark look.

"Were you the only one?"

"I was the worst..."

" _Thorin_."

He sighed, forced to be truthful. "No. I was not the only one."

"And do you consider the others weak for falling prey to the same evil?"

"That is different. I was their leader. I should have been able to..."

"Walk on water and move mountains with your bare hands?" Dís suggested scornfully. "Again you set standards Durin himself would struggle to meet. You made a _mistake_ , Thorin, a mistake others made as well, and you think because you were not able to avoid the trap that ensnared your fellows you are somehow less than what you were before?"

"I should have been able to resist it." A small, still rational part of his mind recognized the ludicrousness of defending his own guilt, but it had long since been relegated to a role of observation only. "Kíli did."

Dís laughed, actually _laughed_ , at him.

"Kíli," she said warmly. "Has not had need of riches his entire life. You may think it was not enough, Thorin, but we had all we wanted in Ered Luin, all we needed, and, whilst Fíli might have been taught the uses to which a treasury can be put to better the lives of our people, Kíli would sooner use a gold coin for target practice than its intended purpose. He has no use for gold, and so it had no hold on him. It is different for you. You have a displaced people to care for, you have us, and you have toiled and sacrificed so much that it would be impossible for you not to be enthralled by the possibilities of what you might achieve with Erebor's wealth. Because that is what the curse does, Thorin. It takes pure intentions and it twists and snaps and breaks until all that is left behind is corruption and greed. But not with you." She reached for him again, laying her hands on his shoulders, her voice gentle. "You are still here, you are still you, and I am not going to let you drown yourself in guilt in the place of madness."

"I do not deserve your forgiveness," he whispered, voice crushed by the wealth of emotions assailing him.

"No one deserves forgiveness," Dís answered him, equally quiet. "And yet it is continuously offered."

He stared at her a moment, recalling having heard those same words not that long ago, uttered by another.

"Bilbo," he said at last, with slow realization. "You have spoken with him."

"With him, with Gandalf, with my sons." Dís shrugged slightly. "If you do not wish to be conspired against you should learn not to leave us alone as you disappear into the shadows.” The mirth in her voice died away again, replaced by deep sincerity. “None of them blame you, you know. None but yourself."

"Kíli is afraid of me." Whatever she had learned from them had not been the whole of it. She had not known how far he had been willing to go for the sake of his treasure until he told her himself, even if she had recovered from her shock more swiftly than he expected.

"And yet even he does not bear blame towards you over what happened," Dís pointed out, as though Kíli was a credible witness for what had truly befallen in Erebor.

"No," he agreed sharply. "He blames himself."

"Durin only knows where he gets _that_ terrible habit from." Dís made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. "This is not helping anyone, Thorin, least of all your nephews. You need to accept what happened. You need to forgive yourself, or else you are going to be in no fit state to do anything when we return to Erebor."

He had not yet told anyone of the decision he had come to on that matter, but it seemed fitting it was Dís who would first hear his decision.

"I am not returning to Erebor."

Dís froze, going absolutely stiff, her dark eyes narrowing to slits as she stared at him.

" _What_?" It was only one word, but it was all the warning he needed to know he had just stoked the embers of his sister's fiery temper. "You cannot be serious."

"Dís..." He tried to interrupt, but she was having none of that.

" _No_ , Thorin, I do not wish to hear your excuses. You are not going to do it. You are not going to let the curse that has already taken so much from this family win!"

"It already has, Dís," he answered her. "No matter what you might choose to believe I have failed. I fell. I was no better a ruler than Thror, in the end. I can't go back, Dís. Not after what I've done. What I might do again."

"Don't be a fool, Thorin." She was truly angry now. "Whether or not you return to Erebor will not protect you from the illness if it returns. Did grandfather's sickness fade with distance from his treasure? No, it only grew worse. You are giving up the home you fought so hard for without reason, brother, and I will not allow it. I will not let fear keep you from what is yours."

"Dís..." Again, he went unheard.

"You can't live the rest of your life wondering, Thorin. You need to know, and so do they.” Her anger was no longer directed at him now, but at others, her fury lending her energy as she began to pace back and forth. “Do you not know what they said of Kíli? They called my son mad, Thorin, _mad_. They treat the house of Thror with scorn, they believe we have fallen far enough as to be nothing more than a nuisance, a bloodline to be swept beneath the rug and not thought of any longer. They treated you with contempt at the meeting in Ered Luin, and they will treat your nephews the same way until you prove them wrong."

He did not answer her, too troubled and conflicted to find the right words, and, seeing this, Dís' expression softened slightly.

"I am not going to push you into making a decision now,” she said, coming to a standstill before him. “But think on it, Thorin, please. You made a mistake, but it is in the past, and you do not need to let the past define you."

They were words he had heard before, but not from his sister, heralding instead from the day he had first seen the branding on his brother-by-wed's back, and had realized the reason Nali spoke so little of his history. Ered Luin had been a sanctuary for all those dispossessed and lost, and Nali had suffered no less than any other, though one would not have known it from his demeanour. Thorin had always envied him that ability to not linger on the tragedies that he had lived through, but Nali had simply given him the self-same advice Dís was offering him now.

The path of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for Dís smiled. "My husband may have been a fool," she said. "But he was a wise one. You know he would tell you the same were he still with us."

"He would tell me nothing, Dís," Thorin retorted. "Were Nali still alive he would have dropped me headfirst off the nearest cliff in Erebor to knock some sense into me the moment I began to lose my way."

"Then you have my faithful promise to do the same," Dís answered him sweetly. Then, more seriously, she added, "You overcame it, Thorin, you _won_. Do not give it a victory now, a hold on your life when you should finally be rid of it."

“I will try.” He could not give her more than that, because it was not his to offer.

“And we will help you.” She laid her hand on his arm again. “You have only to let us.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli awoke to the comforting warmth of a familiar back pressed against his own, and for one, blissfully peaceful moment he thought he was back in Ered Luin, on another hunting trip with his brother and uncle, with thoughts of mountains, dragons, and thrones little more than legends drifting in the mist. That moment did not last long as his eyes focused and the wood-clad room around him swam into his sight, but the sense of peace remained regardless of the illusion’s vanishing, and so he lay still, fully relaxed for what seemed the first time in months, and unwilling to disturb his own contentment. At his back, Fíli slept on, oblivious to the comfort he brought his younger brother.

He had not dreamed, he realized after a moment. That was the difference. There had been no horrifying nightmares where he reached for both brother and uncle only to have them dissolve beneath his fingers, unsubstantial beings conjured by his own mind. The same dream in different form had haunted him every night since Erebor, and he had not been able to escape it, startling awake again and again long before he had rested long enough to fulfil his body's need for sleep. But last night had been without any dreams, good or bad, and he had awoken of his own volition.

For a moment he entertained the idea of simply staying where he was, comfortable and warm and entirely unconcerned, but he was also hungry, and the fire had been tended throughout the night, so that the room was not cold enough to dissuade him from rising in search of breakfast. Quietly, careful not to wake his resting sibling, he slipped from the room and made his way down the corridor to the kitchen, where the familiar scent of a warm breakfast indicated that Ranlóm had already begun his morning duties. Most of the rest of his comrades were still absent when Kíli entered the room and took a seat, but Alatair offered him a nod from his own end of the table, pouring over a detailed map of the Ettenmoors.

“You are up early, Master Dwarf,” he said amiably. “Most have chosen to stay abed as long as possible to avoid the cold.”

“Or _would_ have chosen to stay abed, had you not so mercilessly stolen their blankets,” Ranlóm chipped in as he set a bowl before his captain and their guest. His smile indicated he had not been one of those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of the same, always the earliest riser in the fort. “Is your brother awake?”

“Not yet,” Kíli answered, gratefully cupping the warm bowl in his hands. “I’ll take him some later.”

Ranlóm nodded and returned to his appointed task, leaving Kíli to finish his meal in silence as Alatair continued to frown at the map as though it had done him some personal offense. Curious, Kíli dared to ask after the reason for his frustration.

“What’s the matter?”

Alatair startled slightly, obviously having forgotten the fact he was not alone, but did not object to the interruption.

“Nothing is the matter,” he replied, pushing the map aside in favour of his morning meal. “I am merely wondering whether it might be better for the entire patrol to accompany you and your kinsmen to Rivendell. I do not like to send you alone, but nor do I wish to leave Tol Ascarnen without its full compliment.” He cast a sideways glance at the map again, then shook his head. “We have been thorough in searching the moors, and yet have found nothing that is not ordinary for this place. Perhaps it is time to call off the hunt.”

Kíli nodded slightly, feeling guilty, though even he knew that it was irrational. “I’m afraid we’ve been something of a burden to you.”

“Perhaps,” Alatair allowed with an incline of his head. “I cannot say that I was expecting to be confronted with a number of seriously wounded dwarves, nor that I particularly welcomed the occurrence, but it will be a sad day indeed when we who have taken oaths to protect those in need instead turn them away.”

“No,” Eldalil answered, stepping into the room and shaking snow from his cloak as he set it beside the fire to dry. “Instead you busy yourself with rousing old men at indescribable hours of the morning to send them out into the cold. Shame on you, boy.”

Alatair’s smile was entirely unapologetic as he shifted over slightly to allow room for the rest of the patrol to be seated at the table. Kíli took that as his cue to leave them to themselves, acquiring Ana’s aid in carrying a tray to Fíli’s room, where Nárran informed him the rest of his family had gathered. Fíli was awake by the time he stepped back through the door, seated on the edge of his bed and patiently enduring his mother’s fussing over the number of knots he had accumulated in his hair, though the grin on his face suggested it was not quite the ordeal he was making it out to be. Thorin had not excused himself this time, instead taking up a post beside the window, his hands folded behind his back and his eyes focussed on the white landscape outside.

“There, now you look decent again.” Dís finished tying off the last of Fíli’s braids with an air of quiet satisfaction as Kíli claimed his usual place in the chair at his brother’s bedside. Critically, his mother observed her work, before giving her head a slight shake. “It would look better if you still had your clasp.”

“Oh!” Kíli started in remembrance. “I have that. It’s in my pack.”

He moved to retrieve the satchel from where it rested at the foot of his brother’s bed, but Dís stayed him with a flick of her hand, shifting to reach for the bag herself. Fíli, for his part, was giving Kíli a searching glance.

“How on earth did you manage to find _that_?” he demanded. “I dropped it in the middle of a battlefield!”

“Balin found it,” Kíli answered readily enough, then sobered as the memory of the words with which it had been handed to him resurfaced. “He meant it to be a… a memoir.”

“Huh.” Fíli considered a moment, then shrugged. “I shall have to remember to thank him later.”

“Kíli…”

The slightly strangled note to his mother’s voice drew the attention of both young dwarves, and Kíli noted Thorin turning in his peripheral vision before the wrapped bundle his mother had drawn forth from amongst his other belongings wholly captured his attention. He knew what it was she held the moment he saw it, but it was too late to stop her from revealing the same to the entire room. The bindings fell away as she stood, cradling the object in her hands with infinite care, and a bright, shimmering light immediately burst forth from the stone now resting in her palms.

“Is that…?” Fíli began, choking slightly.

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin finished the thought for him, his voice filled with both dread and amazement. “But what is it doing _here_?”

 


	25. Temptation

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 25**

**_ Temptation _ **

 

Nobody moved.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been reason for great amusement, the way they all simultaneously froze in place. But there were too many memories tied to the priceless relic sitting in his mother’s hands for Fíli to find the slightest hint of humour in the situation. Shock held him as immobile as the rest of his family for several long minutes and, when he at last started back to himself, it was to see both his brother and uncle looking exceedingly pale, whilst his mother's expression was one of complete and utter confusion. Still no one moved, and he was on the brink of speaking, of breaking the spell, when Thorin took three slow, unsteady strides across the room to stand beside his sister and flipped the cloth surrounding the heirloom back into place. The light that had so entranced them all vanished in an instant, plunging the room back into the comparatively dull hues of natural morning light. Thorin stood a beat longer, his hands wrapped around Dís' own as the pair stared at one another in silent conversation, then the dwarf lord turned, voicing a single, gentle word.

"Kíli."

Fíli's eyes swung back to his brother, and his heart twisted at the sight of the archer desperately trying to press himself into – or _through_ – his seat. Kíli's face was white, his gaze unfocused, and Fíli suddenly found himself wondering if the younger prince's reaction had more to do with the last time the Arkenstone had been revealed in Thorin's presence than what was actually happening now.

"Kíli," their uncle spoke again, not shifting an inch, his voice still low and quiet. He looked shaken himself, if a little less absolutely terror stricken, and far more concerned over his nephew's welfare than his own. Kíli's wide eyed stare drifted up to meet Thorin's at the second sounding of his name, but the clouded panic in his gaze had not abated, and, though his lips parted as if to speak, no words were forthcoming.

Dís frowned and gathered herself, but Thorin stilled her before she could take a single step, carefully lifting the wrapped jewel from her hands and crossing the space between himself and his youngest nephew. Kíli actually flinched away from him, breath hitching in his throat, eyes still too wild for his gaze to be wholly in the present, but Thorin simply dropped into a crouch before him, placing the bound Arkenstone in the grasp of Kíli's immobilized limb and lifting his nephew's other hand to cover it.

"I made a promise," he said softly, when Kíli's eyes finally snapped to his own with something like recognition. "A promise I intend to keep." Then, with the air of one repeating words that had already been spoken, he raised a hand to cradle the back of his nephew's head, his voice firm yet kind. "It is not worth losing you."

Kíli stilled, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched his uncle's face for any sign of untruth. He did not find it, and with a broken sound hurled himself forward into Thorin's embrace, neither paying heed to the stone that fell to the floor with a soft 'thud'. Fíli let out the breath he had not realized he was holding, then rolled his eyes when the first words to pass his brother's lips were an apology.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and Thorin laughed softly, returning Kíli’s hold with equal fervency

"As am I," he said, then pushed Kíli to arm's length so his nephew could see the smile on his face. "But do not tell your mother, or she will have us both flogged."

"You are both fools," Dís retorted, too much of a quaver in her voice for the words to carry the sting they were meant to. "Honestly, I have no idea what I am going to do with either of you."

"Do with whom?" Bilbo inquired as he walked into the room, eyes darting between Dís, Fíli, and then to Thorin and Kíli. Pausing, he frowned. "Am I interrupting something?"

"You are," Thorin answered honestly, giving Kíli's shoulder a final squeeze as he rose. "But it does not necessarily follow that the interruption was unwelcome."

"Oh, well, good." Bilbo did not look entirely convinced, but whatever reservations he might have had about joining them vanished when he took a step forward and then stopped dead in his tracks. Blinking sharply, he turned to Thorin with what was apparently nothing more than polite curiosity. "What is the Arkenstone doing on the floor?"

"We're all wondering the same thing," Fíli offered cheerfully, aware of the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation, but too giddy to care.

"I'm sure you are," Bilbo answered with a nod. "Except that wasn't what I meant, because the last time I saw that stone it was being handed to Dain so he could bury it with Thorin."

It was only natural that all eyes then turned to Kíli for an answer, who at least managed not to shrink from the attention this time, even if he did not look wholly comfortable with it.

"I... I didn't steal it," he said, sounding more defensive than Fíli was sure he meant to.

"Nobody is accusing you of stealing it," he assured his sibling at once, the 'this time' an unspoken thought shoved swiftly to the back if his mind. Thorin offered a nod of agreement to back his words, and, encouraged by the lack of panic in Kíli's features, Fíli continued, "We're simply wondering how it got from there to here."

Kíli shifted slightly in his chair, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his tunic as he murmured his response, "Dain gave it to me."

Thorin actually started, surprised enough to show it. "What?"

"It was after the funeral," Kíli explained, a little more confident now that his words had not incited an unfavourable reaction. "Before the Council. I went to see the tombs to... Dain found me there." His lips twisted into a wry smile, his next words infused with self-mockery. "Of course, by then I had already wasted several days acting like a child and doing absolutely nothing but cause trouble for everyone else.”

“Who told you that?” Thorin was frowning, and Fíli echoed the question silently, for there was no way those sentiments had been forged solely in his brother's mind. Someone else had planted the idea in the fertile soils of Kíli's uncertainty, and Fíli would have more than a few sharp words to share with some when the time came.

“Everyone.” Kíli shrugged slightly, the gesture not quite achieving the indifference it was meant to. “Lord Dain told me I was failing my people.” He paused, twisting the fingers of his hands together, a sign that some feeling, at least, had begun to return to his crippled limb. After a moment’s silence he raised his head, meeting Thorin’s waiting gaze with a tentative look of his own. “He wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“Nor was he entirely right,” Thorin answered. “You weren’t raised to rule, Kíli, not as Fíli was. No one could have expected you to shoulder that burden without flinching.”

“I think I could have done better,” Kíli’s response was quiet, but sincere.

Thorin shook his head in disagreement as Dís and Fíli exchanged a glance, neither of them at all surprised by the fact Kíli was once again setting impossible standards for himself, nor in any doubt as to from whom that habit had been learnt. "I think what you managed to achieve was a miracle.”

"I'm hallucinating," Fíli declared immediately, before his brother could die from honest-to-goodness shock. His declaration earned him an amused look from his uncle and a putout one from his brother as he added, “You didn’t actually just say that, did you? Or did Kíli turn into something other than a complete lurdan whilst I wasn’t looking?”

"You need to look more often," Thorin replied in good humour. “Your brother has been building the foundations of a kingdom as you idle away the days.”

“What?”

Fíli blinked in confusion at the same time as Kíli protested.

“I have not!”

“You have,” Thorin corrected him calmly. “Putting the Council in their place even as you surrendered the throne, forging alliances with elves, dwarves, men, and any others you could persuade to join you. On what else do you think a strong kingdom is built?”

Kíli simply stared at Thorin, spluttering slightly as he tried to find words. Dís, taking pity on her youngest, interceded.

"I still don't understand why Dain gave you the stone," she said. "Especially if he believed you were unfit for the throne."

"He never said I was unfit," Kíli corrected her. "Just that I was behaving like I was. He was actually one of very few who wasn't wholly against me searching for Fíli and Thorin."

"So he _encouraged_ you," Dís said tautly, obviously torn between the realization of what could have happened had Kíli not been 'encouraged' and her anger at the thought of anyone endorsing such a hare-brained scheme. Instinctively, Fíli reached across to seize his mother's hand, a physical reminder that they were all here, no matter how unlikely a chance that possibility might have once seemed.

"He didn't _discourage_ me," Kíli admitted. "He even suggested it might be possible to take the throne and still conduct a search, but of course it would have been too late by then."

"And all this happened before the Council?" Bilbo frowned. "You never said anything."

"What was I going to say?" Kíli asked, moving his free hand in a helpless gesture. "That maybe one dwarf who I barely knew was willing to believe I was not completely out of my mind? It's not like it would have changed anything. Everybody else still thought I was mad, even as they tried to shove a crown upon my head."

There was a certain hint of bitterness to those words that Fíli did not like, though he could not say the feeling was unjustified. Not if all Bilbo had related was true.

"But the Arkenstone?" Thorin shook his head. "The King's Jewel? The Seven Armies swore oaths on that stone, and Dain simply _gave_ it to you? Why?"

"He said it belonged to Thror's house, and that he was only returning what was ours." Kíli shrugged, offering the only explanation he had. "He was never going to keep it anyway. It was meant to be sealed in your tomb. I think... I think he was trying to give me a way around whatever decision the Council made. Or maybe he thought I'd actually be able to find you, and that you would need it to reclaim Erebor."

Thorin shook his head again, slowly, looking bewildered, and it was Dís who offered clarity amongst the confusion.

"Frerin," she spoke suddenly, earning herself a searing glance from Thorin. "Oh, don't look at me like that, brother. You may say what you like about our cousin, but he and Frerin were close before the end. He did not refuse your request lightly, and, if he is anything like the rest of this family, I am certain he has been carrying some form of guilt upon his shoulders since. This is recompense." Her gaze drifted to the unshielded heirloom still lying upon the floor, her voice adopting a pensive note. "Durin's Folk do not leave their debts unsettled."

"Northri!" Kíli shot bolt upright in his chair, white as chalk for the second time, a horrified expression on his face. "I completely forgot. How could I _forget_?" Self-remonstration turned swiftly to urgent inquiry as Kíli swung about to face their halfling companion. "Bilbo, did Gandalf...?"

"Beorn and Northri both made it out," the hobbit answered subduedly. "But not all of his men were so fortunate. There were casualties, Kíli, I'm sorry."

Fíli watched his brother actually diminish beneath the weight of that news, unsurprising as it was, given all he had heard of their escape. He felt bad enough himself, having made it to safety at the expense of others' lives, but he had not been the one to beg aid of Northri, dragging him into a war he had removed himself from years before.

"Kíli." Thorin claimed his nephew's attention with that simple utterance, holding the archer's dark gaze as he spoke, "The choice was theirs. Do not cheapen their sacrifice by assuming blame for the decisions they made."

"They only made that decision because I asked them to," Kíli answered fretfully, visibly upset. "They risked the dangers of Gundabad for me, and I forgot I had even left them there!"

"There was nothing more you could have done."

"That's not an excuse! They saved us all, and I didn't even..."

“Northri?” Dís interrupted blankly, and Fíli was suddenly reminded that, between relating what had happened when they arrived in Erebor and the elated reunions of the day before, there had been no time to tell his mother the full tale of Kíli’s exploits. Thorin cast his sister a fleeting glance, but kept his focus on his youngest nephew.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he reiterated firmly, in what was nothing less than the voice of experience. “Those who followed you followed you willingly, knowing the danger into which they walked. Knowing they lost their lives doing so, serving a cause you led them to, is a burden borne by any leader, and not one you can escape.”

“But I did not _want_ that,” Kíli protested, sounding as young and lost as Fíli felt in that moment. It was one thing to be raised knowing the burden you were to shoulder, but to actually be faced with the reality of what _leading_ meant was something else entirely. “I gave up the crown. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“A crown does not make you a king,” Dís interjected gently. “Nor does a stone. They are only symbols, worn fraudulently more often than not, that cannot lend to one the qualities required to rule. The exiles of Erebor did not follow Thorin because he was Thror’s grandson. By the time Moria had come and passed they would have as soon as turned on a king as followed him had they seen in him anything less than a lord who was as loyal to them as they were asked to be to him. People will follow what they believe in, and it is no fault or flaw of yours if what they choose to believe in is _you_.”

“It is if you get them killed,” Kíli retorted stubbornly.

“Would you have blamed me?” Thorin asked suddenly, earning a questioning glance from the archer, and a sharp look from Dís, who knew as well as Fíli did that Thorin hardly needed blame from any other quarter when he was quite efficiently fulfilling the role of persecutor himself. “Had the dragon ended us all in one fell swoop, would it not have been my fault, having brought you all there in the first place?”

It was a trap made of words, they could all see it, and the expression on Kíli’s face clearly betrayed the fact he knew there was no escaping it.

“No,” he conceded at last. “We all knew there was a possibility the dragon was still there, and that was if we even made it to the mountain at all.”

“The contract was certainly clear enough on the dangers involved,” Bilbo muttered, and Fíli caught himself smiling despite the seriousness of the situation.

“And one would not be wrong, I think,” Thorin continued. “In assuming that Northri’s warriors were perfectly aware of what storming Gundabad meant for each and every one of them. They _chose_ to follow you, Kíli, and if inspiring loyalty in others is a crime then we are all here guilty of the same. That is not to say we need ignore their sacrifice. When you and your brother are recovered and capable of travel again we will be able to pay our respects to those who gave their lives in the endeavour to free us, in fact it is only right we should do so, but it is not a duty you can perform now."

There was a moment of hesitance before Kíli nodded, a sure sign his younger brother was not wholly convinced, nor entirely at peace with what had occurred, but it was progress of a kind, and better than nothing in Fíli’s mind. Thorin accepted the gesture for what it was, moving to retrieve the Arkenstone from where it lay on the floor, wrapping it a second time and passing it with just a little too much haste to the younger prince.

“I think it is best if you keep this for now,” he said simply. “We will decide what is to be done with it later.”

Obediently, Kíli drew it into his lap. With the matter of the stone dealt with for the moment, Fíli turned his attention to more important matters.

“Breakfast has gone cold,” he stated ruefully, staring at the congealing mass that was all that was left of their once appetizing meal.

“I’m sure there is some leftover,” Bilbo told him. “I could go ask, if you like.”

“I will go,” Thorin said, before Fíli could gratefully accept the hobbit’s offer. “I understand that my sister has not yet heard the full tale of Kíli Kinsaver.” Kíli started, turning to cast a dark glare his brother’s way, but Fíli simply offered him an innocent grin in response. Thorin himself was smiling, despite not having turned away from Bilbo to see his nephews’ reactions. “If you would not mind a third telling?”

“Oh, of course not,” Bilbo conceded cheerfully. “It is a quite a story, after all.”

“I imagine it is,” Dís replied knowingly. “One does not march half way across Middle Earth and brave the dark deeps without returning with a story to tell. I wish to hear the tale of this impossible rescue. How two thought lost were freed from the enemy's own stronghold."

“But that’s not even the good part,” Bilbo told her, taking a seat cross-legged on the floor in deference to the lack of chairs.

“Oh, really?” Dís turned to him with a glint in her eye even as Kíli groaned and covered his face with his hand. “Do tell, Master Baggins.”

“Well…” Bilbo paused, considering. “I suppose it all really started when Kíli took the whole dwarvish council to task over their argument about the throne.”

"I didn't take anybody to task," Kíli protested, lowering his hand just enough to scowl at the hobbit.

"You practically told them they were acting like a bunch of uncivilized ruffians," Bilbo retorted. "If that is not taking them to task then I do not know what is."

"I wish I had been there," Fíli added wistfully, having already heard this particular story, if not in the exact same words. "I would have liked to see their faces."

"They looked like a hobbit dinner party might if you were to tell them they weren't actually getting any dinner," Bilbo supplied helpfully. "I'm fairly certain Gandalf was silently laughing through the whole affair.”

“I don’t see why,” Kíli grumbled. “It wasn’t at all funny.”

Whatever response Bilbo made was lost to Fíli, whose attention was caught by the sight of Thorin slipping quietly from the room. His gaze darted briefly between his three remaining companions, then he reached for his crutches, receiving the slightest nod of approval from his mother before he shamelessly disobeyed Nárran’s edict and followed in his uncle’s wake.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Thorin’s hands were shaking.

It was an outwards reflection of his inner state of mind, his unsettled thoughts enough to have caused the trembling of limbs, and he did not hesitate to turn aside from his appointed task, retreating instead into the solitude of one of the unoccupied rooms in the fort, desperately trying to string together the frayed strands of his composure. It had not been the Arkenstone itself that caused such a reaction, but rather the memories that darted to the forefront of his mind the moment the gemstone’s multi-hued glow had struck his eyes. He could still feel the phantom weight of his sword in his hand, the trickling remnants of the absolute fury that had gripped him in that moment, and the sight of Kíli throwing his arms up in a desperate attempt to ward off the blow that could have so easily ended his life. Dís could claim that his actions had not been his own as many times as she wanted, but that did not change the fact that he _remembered_ them as clearly as any memory not stained by the gold sickness.

“Uncle?” He whirled, taken wholly by surprise, to find Fíli standing in the doorway, using the frame to prop himself upright as much as the crutches he was not supposed to be using without aid. “Are you alright?”

“Fíli…” He was at a loss for words, and fell back on what was familiar. “You should not be…”

“I can manage.” Fíli waved off his concern, shifting his weight back onto the supports that had been so carefully adjusted to his height, manoeuvring his way across the room until he was able to utilize the windowsill as an impromptu seat. It took him a moment to get his breath back, even a little exertion still enough to tire him, but he picked up the threads of a conversation they had never truly started as soon as he was able. “I was angry as well, you know. When Bilbo said he’d taken the Arkenstone. I wouldn’t have stopped you from hurting him, because I thought he deserved to be punished. He wasn’t… He wasn’t even Bilbo anymore. He was just a threat to the gold. A faceless, nameless traitor who needed to be taken care of. I could say I wouldn’t have gone that far. That I would have come back to my senses before anything happened. But I don’t think that would be true. I believe that, if Kíli hadn’t stopped you, no one would have.”

He should have had an answer for that. Some form of reassurance to offer his heir, but the truth was that, on this matter, he had nothing to give. Fíli did not wait for him to find a suitable response, instead using the silence to gather his thoughts, and proceeding again before the quiet had stretched for too long.

“I was angry at Kíli, too, at first, for defending Bilbo. For helping him when he had betrayed us. But then I was just scared, because for Kíli to have done such a thing… For my own brother to have given the Arkenstone away… For me not to have even noticed him planning to do it… I should have known, I _should_ have, but I was so wrapped up in the treasures of Erebor that I didn’t even care that my little brother was scared and alone and desperate. Worse still, I didn’t even know. We’ve known each other all our lives and I didn’t _know_.”

“Fíli…”

“I don’t think I understood, before,” his nephew continued as though he had not made a sound. “What people meant when they said the sickness changed Thror. I didn’t realize what that meant until it changed _me_. Until I looked back on my own thoughts and actions and didn’t recognize them as mine, except that they were. They _were_ mine. I did and said and thought those things, but I can’t justify them because I know they weren’t right. I know that I would never have wanted harm to come to Bilbo, and yet I did then, and it made perfect sense to me _then_. Is that…” Fíli hesitated, his gaze tentative when it met Thorin’s own. “Is that what it’s like for you?”

“Yes.” He had not truly thought of Fíli’s side in all this, so wrapped up in his own guilt and regret that he had not paused to consider how his eldest nephew was coping beyond his physical ailments. He had known Kíli was struggling, it was impossible not to know, but Fíli was the steady one, the brother who could be relied upon to keep his head – and his calm, a rare trait indeed in the Line of Durin – no matter what happened. Thorin had not asked himself whether or not Fíli was managing all that had happened because he had simply assumed he was, an oversight he could no longer afford to make. “At the time I thought I was perfectly justified in…”

He could not say it. Could not put into words what he had nearly done and would forever have regretted if he had ever managed to find his way back to himself, but Fíli did not need to be told.

“The Arkenstone didn’t change anything, though,” the prince said aloud. “Seeing it, here and now, didn’t make me think what I’d done was right.”

“Give it time.” Temptation was rarely instant in conjuring a result, after all. It had taken time for Erebor’s hoard to work its insidious magic. Time for him to lose his mind to greed.

“Uncle, you left it lying on the _floor_ ,” Fíli pointed out practically, and not without a hint of exasperation. “You’re fine, it’s fine, and mother’s here to knock sense into both of us the moment we show any sign of _not_ being fine. You need to stop _worrying_.”

There was a moment’s potent silence as Thorin simply stared at his nephew and the slow-dawning realization of what he had actually said to whom sunk into the eldest prince’s mind. He did not back down, though, adamantly standing his ground, and Thorin could not stop a fond smile from spreading across his lips.

“Breakfast?” he offered lightly, and Fíli grinned.

“Definitely.”

 


	26. The Road to Rivendell

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 26**

**_ The Road to Rivendell _ **

 

With a creaking groan of straining wheels the foundered wagon lurched forward out of the snowbank with a suddenness that sent the men leaning against it sprawling in the deep drift. Kilarin, whose role as one of their forward scouts meant he was safely mounted atop his horse, burst out laughing at the antics of his fellow rangers, his amusement echoed in a more muted fashion by Luin and Ranlóm. Eldalil cast the unrepentant trio a dark glare as he found his feet again, but it was Urris who silenced them, his hard packed snowball aimed with as much accuracy as the spear he favoured in battle, so that Kilarin very nearly lost his seat in surprise. Alatair spared his men’s antics only the briefest of glances before turning away with a shake of his head, guiding his sturdy mount into a position alongside Gandalf’s.

“Sometimes I do not know whether I am leading a company of men or children,” he reflected ruefully, splitting his attention between the wizard on his right and the dwarves riding in the cart on his left. “Though Halbaron tells me they are one and the same.”

"They are simply happy to be leaving the moors behind them," Ana told him from her place beside Nárran on the wagon's deck. "You cannot blame them for being eager to return home."

It was not a sentiment, Kíli knew, shared by the rangers alone. Both his mother and uncle had seemed pleased by the decision to depart from Tol Ascarnen, even if their road from there was only decided so far as Rivendell. Inga, his mother's sole companion and guard, had proved herself as talkative as Kíli remembered by not uttering a single opinion aloud, but she had clambered up into the driver's seat readily enough when the time came to depart. Even Fíli, who was in for a rough journey no matter how carefully they picked their path, had brightened at the chance to leave the bleak surrounds of the ruined fort, and Kíli was left wondering what was wrong with him that he could not muster the same enthusiasm.

The dilapidated stronghold was not a home, not even to the men who had been using it as such when they chose to take three wounded dwarves into their care, but it was the first place Kíli had felt safe in so long that the thought of leaving it had been strangely unsettling. Isolated as they were here, well away from all other signs of civilization, it had been possible to forget the repercussions and consequences still awaiting them when they returned to the outer world. With every mile they covered that took them further from the ancient sanctuary, those consequences grew ever more present in the back of his mind.

Consequences like the men Northri had sacrificed for his sake. The people he had left in the care of others in Erebor. The companions he had abandoned without a thought after the council. The Company had not believed a word he said, it was true, but they had deserved more from him then an unannounced departure that had no doubt left them frantically combing the countryside for their missing prince. He could not have told them much, not without them trying to stop him, but even a lie would have served better than nothing at all, because nothing at all had driven his mother to tears and a reckless race across Middle Earth with only Inga at her side.

"Stop it." Fíli's elbow caught him in the side, wrenching him from his thoughts, and he turned to scowl at his pale-faced sibling. Fíli's expression was more a grimace than a grin, his teeth clenched just a little too tightly to be natural, but he still managed a reprimand. "You're brooding again."

There was no point denying the accusation, for that would only fuel his brother's mischief, so Kíli adopted a different method of deflection.

"I'm not the one who spent three hours staring out a window this morning."

It was meant in jest, mostly, save that he had found Fíli’s intense expression somewhat disturbing at the time.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Fíli retorted, but there was too much of an edge to his voice even before he continued. "It's not like I would have been of any use."

Kíli hesitated, lips parted but words not forthcoming, and his brother turned away. "Fíli..."

The look his sibling affixed him with was almost challenging. "What? It's true."

And it was. It was absolutely true that Fíli would only have gotten in the way during the morning's preparations. Kíli's one good arm had meant he could help on the fringes, Fíli's injury had side-lined him completely, but that didn't mean...

"I expected you to be gloating," he tried, testing the waters. "Getting out of doing chores when Thorin is nearby is never easy..."

"Don't, Kíli," Fíli cut him off, and there was something very wrong about the set of his brother's chin, the rawness to every word. "Don't jest about... about this."

He didn't understand. Fíli had been fine before, cheerful even, pleased at the prospect of escaping their bleak surrounds. Even before Nárran had grudgingly given his permission for the eldest prince to travel Fíli had seemed to be in good spirits, the best out of all of them, and he had been smiling this morning right up until... _Oh_. Until Kilarin and Luin had between them carried Thorin's heir from the keep to the wagon, where Narran and Ana had mounted him on a throne of folded blankets to try and minimize what damage may result from any forthcoming jostling. Until reality had presented itself in all its glory, and Fíli had no longer been able to pretend.

"It's not a life sentence, you know." Knowing what was wrong with his brother did not help at all in fixing it. This wasn’t a youthful endeavour gone wrong, or a lesson of Balin’s that had been failed with chagrin for a lack of the studiousness suitable to an Heir of Durin following. This was… This was _serious_. This was life-changing and permanent and… and just _more_. "You won't need the crutches forever."

"I don't want to talk about it, Kíli." Fíli put a determined note of finality into that statement.

Kíli ignored it. "Maybe you should."

"Kíli."

" _No_. That's not fair. You and Thorin can't force me to talk about what I went through and then pretend that nothing happened to either of you. I came halfway across the world to save you both. You are _not_ going to shut me out now."

Fíli simply stared at him, and, after a moment beneath that piercing gaze, Kíli broke.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." His brother waved a hand airily. "I was just surprised, that's all. You've been cowering so much lately I'd forgotten how fierce you get when you're angry."

"I have not been cowering!" Indignation covered his hurt, which lasted only a second, recognition tripping on its heels. "And stop it yourself. If I'm not allowed to brood you're not allowed to... to do _this_ either."

"I won't be able to spar again, Kíli." There was no sweetness in the victory that was his brother's response, nor could it be found in any of the words that followed. "Or ride, probably. Or run or even walk. Forget an army, I won't be able to defeat a set of stairs! I won't be able to ride the pulleys in the great shafts or make it to half the lower halls. What good will I be to Erebor, to our uncle, as a cripple? Thorin needs a strong heir, not a broken prince."

"And I'll never be able to shoot a bow again," he snapped back, determined to stop Fíli's thoughts in their tracks. "That doesn't make me useless."

"It…" Fíli began, denial on his lips, but then he stopped, his eyes growing wide. "Wait, what do you mean 'never use a bow again'? I thought your arm was getting better."

"It is." He could feel his fingers again now, could move them and awake only a slight tingling in the tips when he did so. Unfortunately, being able to move his hand was only half the battle, if that. He hadn’t told anyone that yet, though, not even Thorin, though he knew it was likely his uncle had sought a verdict directly from Nárran as soon as he was able. This wasn’t how he had wanted to tell Fíli, but it was the only thing he could think of to use as ammunition. "But Nárran doesn't think I'll ever regain enough strength to hold a bow steady with my right hand, let alone draw an arrow. It's my own fault, really. I was told not to use it. I was warned. I didn't listen."

"The arrow you fired at Bolg."  Had it been up to Kíli, that part of the tale would have been carefully omitted. Alas, Bilbo had an eye for details, and had left very few out. "That's what did it, isn't it?"

"The arrow that saved your _life_ ," he emphasized. "And I'd do it again, given the choice, because the alternative was you being dead. Maybe I only have one good arm, maybe you'll be called 'hop' for the rest of your life, maybe we're both crippled princes and good for nothing, but we're _alive_ , Fíli. We're alive, and that's all that matters right now."

"Now, maybe," his brother conceded grudgingly. "But what about later? What about when we return to Erebor? What happens when we have our home again? How am I supposed to defend my kingdom or my people when I'm like this, Kíli?"

"The battle has already been won." He felt obligated to point that out, even if it didn't always feel like the truth. "You won't need to fight."

"We still have enemies." Fíli shook his head. "We could still find ourselves fighting to defend our keep. Or you could. I'd be locked inside where I couldn't get in the way."

Kíli floundered a moment, helpless, because Fíli wasn't supposed to be like this. He didn't know what to say to this Fíli, who was bitter and hurting and maybe had been for some time without ever letting it show. Or... Or maybe he _did_ know. He had sacrificed one of the things he held most dear to save his family, who were precious beyond the worth of any treasure or talent he could have hoarded in their place, but maybe there was another way he could use that skill. Not with his own hands, one of their number failing him now, with _Fíli’s_.

"So learn to use a bow."

"What?" Fíli stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Learn to use a bow," he repeated. "Properly, I mean, so you can actually hit more than one target in ten. You can fire from the walls. You can defend Erebor without ever having to leave it. Though, honestly, Fi, if you think being a King has much at all to do with whether you limp or walk then Balin didn't do his job right. I spent a good portion of the journey here unconscious or close to the same. I succeeded, didn't I?"

"You had friends to help you," Fíli argued.

"And so will you," Kíli reminded him. "Not to mention an annoying little brother. Besides, you'll have years yet to find yourself a trustworthy court."

"Are you so sure?" Fíli's eyes darted briefly to where Thorin and Dís were seated at the wagon's other end. "Thorin doesn't want to go back."

"What?” This time it was his turn to stare in surprise. _“Why_?"

"He almost killed you, Kíli." For once, he did not flinch at the words or the memory that came with them, his eyes darting uneasily between brother and uncle as he tried to make sense of Fíli's words. "He's afraid, and so am I."

"You? Fíli..."

"It was never just Thorin, Ki." His brother reminded him subduedly. "We all had a part to play. Maybe the danger is over now. Maybe it's safe. But... the thought that it could all happen again..."

"It won't." It couldn't. Not now.

"You can't promise that." Fíli sighed. "None of us can."

"But, I thought... The Arkenstone?”

“It’s only a part of the treasure. A large part, yes, but still only part. I don’t think I’m going to go mad for treasure again, Kíli, and I certainly don’t _want_ to, but I can’t know for sure until we go back. Who knows? You may even be glad I only have one leg. It’ll make it easier to stop me if you need to.”

Fíli was being far too practical about all this in Kíli’s mind. He didn’t want to think about leashing his brother when he had just started to believe that part of his ordeal was over and done with. When that fear was finally abating. He did not want to, and so he didn’t, discarding the very possibility from his mind.

“We’re not going to Erebor yet, anyway,” he said aloud, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, yes, Rivendell.” Fíli shot their uncle a sidelong glance, then turned back to Kíli with a smile. “That should be fun.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

It was a two day journey from Tol Ascarnen to the edge of the Valley of Imladris on horseback, though, with the laden wagon to slow them down, this particular trip was likely to take closer to three. They made camp as night fell in a small copse of trees near the Ettenmoors' southern border, far enough from the fells and the mountains to offer some measure of safety, but near enough still that Alatair denied his men the comfort of a warm fire. They had seen nothing but small, scurrying animals on their way down, no reason to fear, but Thorin agreed with the ranger captain's choice regardless. They had encountered trouble readily enough as it was without inviting the damned thing in and, despite every precaution taken by their guides, there was still a palpable sense of agitation hanging over their small company that first night.

Or perhaps Thorin was wrong, and it was not their party as a whole that was the cause of the unease lingering in the air. He was not entirely settled himself, after all, and Dís was anxious. Though she had made no move to join them throughout the day his sister's eyes had never strayed far from her children, a troubled frown on her face more often than not. Kíli's reaction to the Arkenstone had frightened her, he knew, and though she had yet to speak her concerns aloud that did not mean he was unaware they existed. It was one thing to hear what he had done in words, but he imagined seeing the full consequences first-hand had been a little more than his sister was prepared for.

But Dís would talk to him when she was ready, and not a moment sooner, so Thorin let his attention drift instead towards his nephews. Something had shifted between them again after the Arkenstone's appearance, and there were no words to express his relief at the new absence of fear in his younger sister-son's eyes whenever he drew near. Kíli was still not wholly comfortable in his presence, but it was progress, and more than he could have hoped for. No, Kíli's state of mind did not worry him at present, leaving his concern to point itself solely at Fíli.

He had thought at first that the eldest prince was coping better with what had occurred than either of his kin. Fíli had a level head on his shoulders, and he had, it seemed, come at what had happened with nothing less than a pragmatic mind-set. At least, what had happened to _others_ , because Thorin was beginning to realize Fíli had dealt with his own ordeal by not dealing with it at all.

It was surely much easier to face his brother's fear and his uncle's doubt, to address the rifts in his family, than to think on what hurdles he alone must overcome. So Fíli had focused first on the welfare of those around him, a commendable course of action, save that its purpose had been twofold. The troubles of his kin had been a distraction, a welcome one Thorin was certain, but that distraction was gone now, and the cracks were starting to show. Kíli seemed to have it in hand at the moment, so Thorin had not intervened beyond making a note to keep an eye on the elder brother, wondering, even as he did so, if his own resolve was as much a diversion for his thoughts as Fíli's had been.

Erebor.

It was never far from his mind, though what the name represented had changed greatly from what it had meant to him at the quest' beginning. The mountain had been an ideal, then, his memories of what it could be embellished by the length of time that had passed since he last set foot within its walls. He was not a fanciful person, he had not conjured a lie, an image that would be dispelled the moment Erebor was reclaimed, but he had thought... He had _wanted_ the mountain to be something more than it proved to be. He had wanted it to be a solution, a way to rise above the suffering and hardship, and instead he had allowed it to become a part of the problem.

Perhaps it had been foolish to believe Erebor would cure what ailed Durin's Folk, but their troubles had begun when the kingdom was lost, and reclaiming it had seemed the most promising means of breaking the streak of ill fortune that had tailed them ever since, and yet now? Erebor was reclaimed, the kingdom would be restored with time, and his people would at last have a home worthy of their lineage. His self-appointed task was done, his goal achieved, and now he was at a loss, faced with another choice that would impact far more than just himself.

Dís was right in her assessment of what may well happen should he refuse his throne. Thror's sickness and Thráin descent into grief stricken madness had cast a shadow over all he did even before he had made his own mistakes. He had been judged on the flaws of his bloodline, and it had been an uphill battle to win some small margin of respect from the Seven. It had not troubled him too deeply, as a King in Exile he had little need to deal with his better-situated peers, but it would be different for the King of Erebor. There were different expectations, a ridiculous number of past fouls and slights, perceived or otherwise, and a wealth of ambition.

After all Thror had done to alienate their allies and all the respect the eldest Line of Durin had lost after the mountain's fall, finding loyal, trustworthy friends would be difficult. If he bowed out now he knew what legacy he would leave behind, and it would not be a kind inheritance for his nephews. One of them would sit upon that throne, he was determined, for Dain had not earned that honour, no matter what acts of contrition he might have performed, but putting either one there now, with the long shadow his actions had cast? He would have likened it to dropping them in a warg pit, had that comparison not struck too close to home still. And yet, his presence did not guarantee a better outcome. Should he choose to return he might well serve as nothing more than a reminder of how far the Line of Durin had fallen.

A rustle of clothing beside him startled him from his thoughts, and he cast a wary glance at the wizard now seated on his left.

Gandalf answered his look with an amicable smile. "Mind if I join you?" he said, and Thorin shook his head as the words were overlaid by the memory of the last time they had been uttered.

"It has not escaped my notice that you seat yourself before you ask that question," he retorted. "Why is that, I wonder?"

Gandalf did not deign to answer what had not truly been a question in the first place, puffing contentedly on his pipe as he stared into the distance. Or... _No_ , Thorin narrowed his eyes as he followed the path of the wizard's gaze over to where his two nephews were gathered together. Fíli looked to be asleep, smothered in blankets and cloaks that served as the same, but Kíli was in the middle of an animated conversation with Ranlóm and Bilbo. It was another sign the young archer was recovering, his willingness to interact with those around him in more than a dutiful sense, and Thorin was glad to see it.

The wizard's obvious interest in the pair, however, he could have done without. He’d had enough of Gandalf’s schemes to last him a lifetime. They all had.

"They are remarkably resilient, those two." As if reading his thoughts, Gandalf broke his silence. "A fine example of the valour and honour to be found in Durin's Folk. Fine lads indeed, though I daresay those who raised them had a part to play in that."

"Their mother raised them," Thorin replied, aware his companion was driving at something, but not yet sure what.

"Of course." Gandalf's gaze was piercing. "And you, of course, had no part to play."

"What are you trying to say?" He was too tired and too troubled to try and unravel a wizard's riddles right now.

"Kíli." Gandalf gestured with the hand holding his pipe towards Thorin's younger nephew. "Believed you were alive even when no one else would. Made certain his people were cared for before he left them. Asked nothing more of any of those who aided us than they were willing to give. Loyalty, duty, and honour. Admirable traits, all of them, but they had to be learnt from someone."

Thorin did not answer, simply frowning, and after a moment Gandalf spoke again.

"It is an unfortunate truth that others will more readily judge a man – or a dwarf, as the case may be – by the mistakes he makes than those of his deeds that are truly worth remembering. You judge yourself by the same standards, my friend, and so you forget the good things you have done, despite the fact two of them are sitting right in front of you."

He could not stop his gaze from flitting to his sister-sons again, though it returned to the wizard with a scowl soon enough. "If you think that changes what happened..."

"Of course it doesn't," Gandalf scoffed. "You made a grievous error, for which you should clearly be punished for the rest of your life."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Mocking?" The wizard gave him guileless look. "I was simply wondering if you will judge your friends so harshly when you are King."

It irked him that the wizard had said 'when' and not 'if', but he allowed him that victory. "And what would I be judging them for?"

 

"The gold sickness, of course," said Gandalf matter-of-factly. "You did tell Dís you were not the only one to suffer beneath its effects, did you not?"

Curse his sister and her meddling. He would have thought she would have at least left Gandalf out of whatever scheme she was conducting to drag him back to the mountain whether he wished to return or not.

"What of it?" he retorted, with the same harsh intonation he had utilized when addressing the same question to Elrond and Bard.

"Well, with such dire consequences being heaped upon your own shoulders, surely some of the others should be brought to account as well? What counsel did Balin offer, I wonder, when the curse took a hold? He was your advisor, will you not take him to task for failing in his duties? And what of Fíli?" That had him snapping his head up, eyes searching, as though the words themselves were a threat to his heir. "He failed to resist just as surely as you did. Is he to be disinherited? Banished from a home he had a part in reclaiming?"

How was he to answer that? How _could_ he, without falling into the trap the wizard had so cleverly laid for him? He hesitated, at a loss for words, and Gandalf rose with a sly smile.

"Ah," he said knowingly. "That's what I thought."

 


	27. Sanctuary

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

 

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 27**

**_Sanctuary _ **

Their third dawn on the road was one of thick mist, their downward path having led them back near the river, a river they could not see despite riding near enough to hear the rushing water. The lack of visibility lent an eerie sense to their travels, so that even the rangers had abandoned their usual banter, riding close together and absolutely silent. His arms folded on the wagon’s railings, Kíli watched the shrouded landscape slip by, his brother dozing lightly beside him, mercifully spared the growing tension in the air. And there _was_ tension, an air of expectation, of dread, carried in the hushed whispers of the forward scouts as they returned to report to their captain. Thorin had noticed as well, and spoke as soon as Alatair reined his mount back to walk beside the slower paced wain.

“What is it?”

“We are not sure.” Alatair’s answer was clipped, his discontent with their current vulnerability easy to see in his face. "Ranlóm heard something earlier, but he cannot say what with any certainty, and whatever it was has since fallen silent. I am not convinced that means it has departed, so I have sent…”

An arrow thudded into the wood a mere inch below Kíli’s hands, and the dwarf prince threw himself backwards in surprise as a distinct whistle unmistakable to an archer’s ears told him more than one bolt had flown. Acting on instinct, he lurched for his brother, knocking the just wakened Fíli’s head below the protection offered by the cart’s railings. Around them, chaos had broken out, shouts and cries shattering the stillness as the rangers rallied to fight off their attackers. Kíli saw Thorin leap from the cart’s deck as Dís and Inga scrambled to draw their own weapons, and felt keenly his own lack of arms, cursing Nárran’s decree that both he and Fíli were more likely to hurt themselves than an enemy were they to attempt to fight. His anger evaporated into fear as a distinctive chorus of howls split the air. The carthorse panicked at the sound, rearing as it fought Ana’s hold on the reins. Inga cut the harness loose before the creature bolted with a scream of terror, its blind flight leading it directly to the river.

“Stay down!”

Nárran’s hand landed on his shoulder as the healer swept past him, pushing him back below the enemy’s line of sight just as another flight of arrows burrowed into the wagon. Boots thudded on the wooden deck as Kilarin made a flying leap from his horse’s back, landing atop the wain with bow in hand and arrow already drawn. He loosed in the blink of an eye, spinning to fire in the other direction as soon as his first shaft had left the string. Kíli did not know how he was finding his targets amidst the brume, and had only a second to consider it as a loud roar had him raising his head despite Nárran’s warning.

He caught a glimpse of the warg launching itself at the wagon, maw open wide and claws reaching, then one of Kilarin’s barbs caught the beast full in the eye and it faltered mid-air, crashing into the cart’s side instead, and sending it sprawling onto its side. Kíli fell, Fíli crashing atop him as the elder prince cried out in pain, the jostling no doubt agonizing for the wounded prince. Scrambling, trying to support his brother’s sudden deadweight, Kíli saw his mother take an orc down with a single strike of her hammer, Inga fighting on what was now their right flank, both dwarves buying Kilarin space to pick off their larger foes whilst they were still at a distance. His hands itched for his own bow, even though he knew he could not use it, so he closed them instead about his sibling, inching back against the upturned wagon.

A shadow flickered, a flash caught out of the side of his eye, and he ducked, dragging Fíli with him as another member of the pack flew overhead, slipping past Inga’s guard. Kilarin turned at the sound of its paws pounding the earth, too late, taking the full brunt of the beast’s momentum. The ranger went down and, sensing a weakness in their adversaries’ defences, the enemy closed in.

Thorin’s blade cleaved the head clean off the first orc who thought to take advantage of the wounded princes, the exiled King returning from wherever the battle had drawn him with Bilbo and two of the Dúnedain at his back. The foursome fell upon the enemy in unison, driving them back with a fierce and determined defence. The warg that had struck Kilarin was dead, though Kíli had not witnessed its demise, and… Something large impacted against the wagon at his back, wood splintered, and a solid object cracked against his back. Dazed, he blinked, only distantly aware of the fact he was sprawled on the ground, staring up into the overcast sky. Overhead the wagon lurched, swaying first one way then the other. Kíli did not think, he acted, throwing himself across his brother’s prone form as the wagon fell and darkness descended to the sound of elven horns.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

“Kíli! Fíli! _No_!”

Thorin faltered, Dís’ cry ringing in his ears, but the flow of battle refused to allow him the sparse moment needed to turn and see what had become of his nephews. Their enemy had chosen the opportune moment to strike, when visibility was low and the wind blew in their favour, so that not even the horses had provided any warning of what was coming. They had been taken by surprise, shocked by the initial force of the onslaught, and those first few seconds had cost them dearly. He did not know where Gandalf or the rest of their escort had gotten to, the madness of battle only worsened by the thick mist enshrouding them all, and he did not have time to search for them, fighting desperately to hold the ground around the damaged wain.

With a violent slash, he ended the last of a determined trio who had thought numbers might fall in their favour, whirling as a large shadow emerged from the fog, then leaping back as the warg crashed at his feet, dead. A single glance was all he needed to take in the shafts protruding from the beast’s head, and a distinct sense of déjà vu settled on his shoulders as horns sounded over the roar of battle. The elven cavalry poured out of the mist in a rush of pounding hooves that shook the ground beneath his feet, arrows soaring with unerring aim as slowly but surely their enemy was whittled away. Thorin did not wait to see the outcome of the fight, pushing aside the ache of his own aggravated injuries to turn and follow his sister as Dís sprinted back to her sons.

The wagon the two had been sheltering beneath had completely overturned, the rear end all but destroyed where a warg had crashed right through it in an effort to attack the defenders from behind. For a single, terrible moment he thought his nephews had been crushed, trapped beneath the very thing that had been protecting them. It was only as he drew nearer that he saw the cart’s fall had been halted, the mangled wagon propped atop the corpse of the warg that had felled Kilarin, creating a small hollow beneath the wreckage.

“Fíli!”

Dís was already on her hands and knees, groping beneath the debris in an effort to pull her sons to safety. Thorin was quick to join her, Inga beside him, and together they managed to slowly manoeuvre the eldest of his nephews out from beneath the overturned cart.

Fíli came out panting, face locked into a grimace of agony as his hands fluttered frenetically about his injured leg, but the word he gasped was not one of concern for his own welfare. " _Kíli_ …”

He seized a hold of Thorin’s sleeve, urgent, frantic, lips moving as he tried to speak around his pain. Thorin quickly passed him into the arms of his frightened mother, and dove beneath the wagon in search of the archer. Kíli was trapped further back in the recess than Fíli had been, and with his eldest nephew’s fear still fresh in his mind Thorin was careful to be gentle as he eased the young dwarf’s limp frame out into the open, where the morning light illuminated the blood. The wagon had struck him as it fell, a more than glancing blow. There was blood matting his hair and staining his collar, the entire left side of his ashen face coated in crimson.

“Kíli…”

Dís’ face was a mask of horror as she stretched out a hand to her youngest, wrapping her fingers about his forearm in a tight squeeze. Kíli did not move, did not even stir, and Thorin was already rising, eyes searching for Nárran, when a tall figure genuflected beside him, hand stretching toward the wound. It was instinctual to reach for his blade, the reaction ingrained, but he stopped short of drawing it, fingers clenched around the hilt as he met the elf lord’s steady regard. Elrond’s gaze was unflinching, a silent, pointed request for permission.

“ _Thorin_.”

It took but that one word from his sister’s lips to make him step back, a reminder that past foolishness had no place in the present, and his nephew’s welfare was not worth any grudge. A curt nod was all the answer the Lord of Imladris needed, and the healer turned away, shifting that disconcertingly piercing gaze of his onto the task at hand. It was a strange sight indeed to see the poised elven lord on his knees in the dirt, but Thorin could not deny the skill with which he worked, the precision of an absolute master of his art. Nárran arrived to help a few moments later, and the pair worked in seamless tandem through the ranks of wounded. Kíli was far from the only one to have been injured in the attack, with several of the rangers, Kilarin among them, having exited the fight more worse for wear than they had entered it. All save Kíli were conscious, though, and it was to Thorin’s youngest nephew that Elrond’s attention returned once the rest of the wounded had been tended so far as their current location and supplies allowed, the expression on his face a pensive one.

From his place propped against his mother’s side, it was Fíli who first uttered the question on all their minds. “Will he be alright?”

“Head wounds are difficult to judge, Master Dwarf,” was Elrond’s guarded response. “We will have to wait until he awakens to be certain of the damage.”

“This one has a hard head,” Gandalf offered, hovering on the fringes of the ragged gathering, his weight leant upon his staff. “I’m certain he’ll be fine, Fíli.”

Elrond cast the wizard a glance that suggested he very much doubted the veracity of that diagnosis, but any response was forestalled by the reappearance of the rest of the elven company. They had gone in pursuit of the fleeing remnants of the pack, leaving only a few riders behind to guard the injured, and returned now with an air of grim satisfaction that spoke of their success even before their leader dismounted, striding forward to stand by Elrond so that the striking resemblance between the two was unmissable.

“The stragglers are taken care of, Ada,” the newcomer said, having the courtesy to speak his report in the common tongue. "Elladan has taken a few scouts to check the surrounding area, but we believe we caught them all. Have you need of aid here?”

“We are going to need a new cart, at least,” Nárran grumbled, kicking at the remnants of their old one. “Neither of the dwarven princes are in any state to walk _or_ ride.”

“A means of transport for the wounded,” Elrond agreed with a nod. “Speak with the stablemaster, Elrohir, and have Lindir prepare the Healing Halls.”

The younger elf gave a swift nod in response, swinging on his heel with the innate grace of his kind and hastening back to his mount. Thorin did not bother to watch him go, crouching instead at Kíli’s side, one hand reaching across his prone nephew to wrap about his sister’s in comfort. Dís looked near to tears, wrapped in the anguish of having come so close to safety only to have uncertainty offered in its place. Sensing eyes upon them, Thorin raised his head and met Elrond’s gaze, wordlessly challenging the elven lord to speak his thoughts.

“He will not die.” That drew the attention of the entire family, if only for the certainty with which it was uttered. It was to Fíli that the Lord of Rivendell’s eyes travelled, his words addressed directly to Thorin’s heir. “I promise you that.”

Lips pulled into a grim line, Fíli nodded, accepting, and Elrond turned away to speak with Alatair and Gandalf. The descendants of Durin remained as they were, a circle, a silent vigil, broken and beaten but standing, yet still awaiting the sword stroke upon which all their fates hung.  

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

When Kíli woke he did so with a start, thrust from peaceful unawareness to battle readiness in the space of a single second. The speed with which he made it upright earned him a sharp, violent rebuke from his aching head and, groaning, he raised both hands to cradle his throbbing skull, his fingers brushing against the soft cloth that had been wrapped about his temple.

“Steady,” a stern voice rebuked him. “That blow was no trifle, you must take care.”

Something about that voice plucked a string of familiarity in his mind and, cautiously, he lowered his hands, wincing against the bright, morning light that immediately aggravated the steady pound that had taken up residence inside his head. His gaze took a moment to focus, a blur remaining about the edges no matter how many times he blinked, but as soon as a small measure of clarity had returned he caught himself staring, half convinced he had hit his head harder than he thought and was simply seeing things.

The Lord of Imladris returned his gaze impassively, wiping his hands dry on a white cloth he laid beside a similarly coloured washbasin before approaching the bedside. “It is good to see you awake at last. How do you feel?”

“Uh…” Eloquent. Balin would be proud. “I… What… Where…?”

“You are in Rivendell, Master Dwarf,” Elrond supplied, even though Kíli realized but a moment later that that much should have been obvious, even to his currently addled mind. “You and your companions were brought here after the battle.”

The battle, yes. And his companions. “My brother?”

“Is here.” Elrond gestured with one hand, and Kíli belatedly realized that his was not the only bed set in the room. To his right Fíli slumbered peacefully, looking pale and worn, but as whole as he had been before they were attacked. Of Thorin and his mother there was no sign, but Elrond answered that question before he could voice it. "The rest of your kinsmen are relatively unharmed, unlikely as that may seem. You were all very fortunate. Had you been any further from the Valley’s borders, aid may not have reached you in time.”

“There were wargs…” he recalled slowly, speaking the memories aloud.

“A pack of them, mounts and riders both,” the elf lord confirmed, watching him closely. Kíli had been subjected to similar scrutiny before, and knew the keen gaze of a healer when he felt it. "They followed you down from Gundabad, though it appears they lost your trail at some point on the road, else they would have been upon you much sooner.”

“What about Alatair and his men?” Suddenly anxious, remembering what he had been told of Northri’s followers, Kíli sought news of the rest of his companions. “Gandalf? Bilbo? Is everyone else alright?”

“Not all escaped unharmed,” Elrond answered him calmly. “But you need not fear. Their injuries, unlike yours, were not so severe as to be life threatening.”

Somewhat taken aback, he objected to that, “I only hit my head.”

“A wagon fell upon you, Kíli, son of Dís,” Elrond retorted dryly. “No one has been able to wake you since, and two nights have passed in the interim.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, he sat still a moment, staring, then winced. “Ma must be furious.”

“Your mother has been rightfully concerned,” Elrond told him, stepping away from his bedside to instead approach Fíli’s, studying Thorin’s slumbering heir with a critical eye. He did not comment on his findings, no matter what those might be, and Kíli was finding it too hard to focus to try and read his expression.

“I should talk to her,” he said, fighting to stay awake. “She’ll want… She’ll want…”

“Rest now, there will be time for talk later.”

He had not noticed the elven healer returning to his side of the chamber, nor did he recognize the hand upon his shoulder until it had already pressed him back into the pillows, his eyes closing of their own accord to shut out the swimming room. He could have sworn it was only for a few seconds, but when he opened them again the soft hues of evening sunlight were dancing across his mother’s face, illuminating the weary smile that graced her features.

“There you are,” she said quietly, one hand reaching out to run lightly through his hair, lingering over the bandages he could now feel pressed against his left temple. With his vision far clearer than it had been before, Kíli did not miss the dark bruise marking her cheek, and he noted with concern the scratches scored into her hand.

“Ma.” Distressed, he propped himself up on his elbows, trying to gain a better vantage point to seek out any other hidden injuries. “You’re hurt.”

“Hush now.” She admonished him, easing him back down despite his brief attempt to protest. “I am fine. _You_ were the one who had us all worried.”

“I’m sorry.” Guilt assailed him, familiar but unwelcome, that one emotion he could not banish no matter how hard he tried. His mother shook her head, looking tired but relieved.

“You protected your brother,” she said softly. “I cannot blame you for that.”

“I can.” Fíli’s voice sounded from his right hand, and Kíli turned, delighted to find his sibling sitting upright and alert, the frown on his face one of mockery. “Your head may be hard, Ki, but it’s not _that_ hard. Mind where you’re sticking it next time.”

He grinned, a retort slipping easily from his lips. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t been sleeping through the whole thing…”

Laughing, Dís shook her head. “Barely awake for two seconds and already into trouble,” she chided, rising, her hand squeezing his shoulder in parting. “Stay put, the both of you, while I go find us a decent meal.”

Without another word she bustled from the room, the hasty motion not quite enough to conceal the decided limp that broke her usual steady stride. Kíli frowned, unease gnawing at him, and Fíli did not miss the gesture.

“She’s alright,” he assured his younger brother, wrenching Kíli’s gaze away from the closed door. “You know Uncle wouldn’t let her up and about if she wasn’t.”

“I know.” That didn’t stop it from being disconcerting, seeing his own _mother_ injured. To his knowledge, Dís had never partaken in battle after her sons were born. Whilst Thorin had returned to the Blue Mountains with the odd, fading injury often enough to acclimatize his young nephews to the idea such things happened, the thought of his mother bearing the same marks was… was… He did not know what it was, besides upsetting.

Seeking a distraction, he pushed himself fully upright, giving his surroundings a moment to steady before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and using the dresser at its head to help him stand. Ignoring the noises of disapproval coming from Fíli’s side of the room he wavered precariously, ears ringing and sight contorting in strange, disturbing ways, then staggered somewhat drunkenly across the space between to flop gracelessly down beside his brother.

“Idiot,” Fíli accused, gripping his good arm tightly to stop him from pitching right back off the bed. His other arm was free, he realized, unfocused, no longer strapped across his chest, which perhaps explained why it was aching so much. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he gasped, blinking rapidly until the chamber stopped spinning. “That was fun.”

“Well, don’t do it again.” Trusting him not to land flat on his face, Fíli slowly loosened his grasp, then removed his hand completely when Kíli only swayed slightly. “I won’t be able to pick you up off the floor if you do, and if Ma or Thorin find you trying that…”

“Trying what?”

The question saw them both freezing, eyes swinging in unison to the doorway where their uncle stood, arms folded across his chest as his gaze drifted between Kíli and the bed he had vacated without permission. It returned inevitably to his nephew’s face, one eyebrow raised in question, as though he truly needed an answer.

“What would your mother say?”

“Probably the same thing she’ll say when she finds you standing in the doorway to her sons’ room despite the fact she _knows_ you are not supposed to be walking so far,” Dís’ voice preceded her presence by but a few seconds as she slipped past her elder brother, casting him a disapproving glance that earned her an apologetic shrug in response. Now that Kíli looked more closely, he could see that his uncle was more leaning against the doorway than standing in it, even if he did appear far more steady on his feet than Kíli himself was.

Dís set the tray she had brought with her down in the centre of Fíli’s bed in easy reach of both her sons, the smell wafting from beneath its cover the most enticing scent Kíli had smelt in what seemed an age, then turned and faced her brother, hands set on her hips.

“Are you joining us, then, Thorin, or do I need to drag you in here?”

“I have already eaten.” Thorin raised his hands in a warding gesture.

“I have never known that to stop you in the past,” Dís retorted, and Kíli almost choked on the freshly baked roll he had filched from beneath the laden tray’s cover. Taking a seat on the corner of her eldest son’s bed, Dís pointed firmly at the opposite edge. “Sit, Thorin.”

Like her sons, Dís’ brother knew better than to ignore that particular tone of voice, spreading his hands in surrender this time as he crossed the room and joined the impromptu dinner party taking place on his heir’s bed. Trading a knowing grin with his brother, Kíli let himself fall back against the headboard, sitting in comfortable silence as his mother buttered bread and divvied out the stew she had somehow wrangled from the kitchens, muttering as she did so her opinion of the culinary skills of elves and their ability to make a meal fit for convalescence.

It was an almost perfect moment. Gathered in a strange room in a foreign realm they found again that which had made their home of the past what it was; Camaraderie, peace, the simplicity that was a loving family brought together in a single place. Here they were simply people, not heirs to a throne or leaders who had fallen from grace, not crippled youths or guilt ridden elders, just a family, whole and safe and happy, who had walked through fire and escaped, not unscathed, but intact, and who _deserved_ a moment to acknowledge that fact without the pressures of the world weighing upon their shoulders. It was a feeling Kíli revelled in, a normalcy that had been absent for far too long, and he let the moment carry him away, forgetting the world around them in favour of this small sanctuary they had found in the least likely of places.

But then the moment passed, reality stormed their stronghold, and the rains of consequence fell.


	28. The Counsel of the Wise

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 28**

**_ The Counsel of the Wise _ **

 

It had been many months since Thorin snatched his grandfather’s map from Lord Elrond’s hand with less gratitude than the favour that had been done for him probably deserved. An age stretched between the then and now, filled with more adventures than most would see in a single lifetime. A great many things had changed in the interim, but not enough, he soon discovered, to make conversation with their gracious host any more comfortable than it had been the first time around. 

At least then he had had Gandalf to fill the silences, ever ready with a witty comment, even if his lies were so fragile and transparent Elrond had been fully justified in addressing the wizard in a tone of voice that was not entirely dissimilar to a parent questioning a fibbing child. Had he not been so focused on trying to keep his true purpose from the elves, Thorin might even have been able to see a great deal of humour in the situation.

Unfortunately Gandalf was not present to provide a distraction today. Thorin would have welcomed any diversion, no matter how unusual, if it meant avoiding the current topic of conversation. Truth could not be buried forever, however, he had been hiding from it too long already. It was time to face the most devastating ramifications of his actions, those he would never be able to set right.

Stewing in silence, he stared broodingly at the patterns of early morning sunlight drawn across the stone table, brightness that defied the gloom settling upon his shoulders.

"So," he said at last, answering words that had been spoken minutes before. "You can do nothing, then."

"I did not say that." 

Elrond poured a glass of wine from the decanter, passing it to the seated Thorin, before fetching a chalice of his own and taking a seat opposite the uncrowned king. There were no attendants in the pavilion he had been so cordially invited to in the first hours of daylight, leaving them alone save for the murmur of rushing water around them. There was something ominous about that, a sense of foreboding Thorin dismissed as a foolish notion. Rivendell was not Mirkwood. He was not even certain there were any dungeons in the Valley of Imladris for Lord Elrond to cast him into should the inclination strike him. 

"I can help both your nephews." Oblivious to his musings, the elf lord continued, "That is not in question. What I cannot do is perform miracles."

Of course not. The elves did not have the power to abolish suffering, they possessed only a means to ease it. Bury it. Hide from it.

That last thought was an uncharitable one, and he endeavoured to keep the bitterness from his voice as he answered, "I am not asking for a miracle."

"You are not asking for anything," Elrond remarked wryly. "Thus far I have spoken with Gandalf, Lady Dís, and both your heirs. All have requests to make, on their own behalf, on each other's behalf, on yours. But you, at least, seem free of demands at present."

"Is that a crime?" he retorted, sharper than he intended. "To enter this realm without the intention of seeking aid or counsel?"

"It is not," Elrond answered. "But simply because one does not seek counsel does not mean one does not need it. You carry a mountain on your shoulders, Thorin Oakenshield, and no matter which way you turn it casts a long shadow."

Thorin stiffened, having not forgotten Elrond's very nearly prophetic warning to Gandalf all those months ago. Elrond had feared Thorin would succumb to the madness of his family line, and he had not been wrong. Such a precarious line to walk, and he had strayed at the very end.

"He may not ever have mentioned my name," Elrond said when Thorin remained silent. "But I truly did know Thror when he ruled beneath Erebor. His downfall was a tragedy, but it was also not, I think, entirely of his own making."

"Erebor fell because of Smaug," Thorin replied, frowning.

"And why did Thror fall?" Elrond mused, meeting Thorin stare for stare. When he did not answer, the Lord of Imladris spoke again, "What do you know of the Rings of Power?"

The morning air was suddenly cooler, crisp to the point of frigidity. 

"Thror possessed one of the Seven," he ventured guardedly.

"Which he passed to Thrain prior to his death," Elrond confirmed with a nod. "One can only imagine where it is now. Far from here, it may be hoped, where it can do no more harm."

"Harm?" He knew what the elf lord was inferring, or at least suspected.

"I knew Thror," Elrond repeated. "Well enough to recognize the changes that were wrought in him. Durin's Folk have always been guarded with their wealth, but the obsession Thror developed for the riches of Erebor was not so commonly seen. Those nearest him called it gold sickness, but I wonder how much gold truly had to do with it."

"What are you saying?" He was tired of this elvish tendency to dance around a subject without ever getting to the point. 

"That I have witnessed the changes brought on by wielding a Ring of Power before, and the darkness that took your grandfather was not unknown to me. Had the one of the Seven passed to you as intended, a very different fate may have befallen at the Battle of Five Armies."

"You believe it was Thror's Ring that drove him to the brink?" He paused, for that did not explain his own failings. He had never carried his grandfather's ring, and whatever affect it might have had on Thror bore no relevance to how events had unfolded beneath that mountain.

"The Rings of Power have never affected only their bearers," Elrond stated simply, guessing the path his thoughts had taken. "All around them fall beneath the same shadow, and the corruption they sow tends to linger. Add to that Smaug's own curse over the treasures of Erebor, and you may begin to see how inevitable an end you were creating for yourself when you attempted to reclaim your home."

"That is not why you tried to stop me." Thorin shook his head, inwardly wondering whether he had Gandalf, his nephews, or his own meddling sister to thank for this particular intervention. He was leaning towards Gandalf, if only because he knew the wizard couldn't keep his nose out of other people's business to save himself. "I believe dragonfire was the more pressing concern at the time."

"Had we truly wished to stop you, do you really think you would have gotten far beyond our borders before you were turned back? This Realm is guarded by powers well beyond what the naked eye can see." Elrond gave him a sidelong glance. "Gandalf is prone to odd causes, yet rarely do those causes prove unworthy of pursuing in the end. I trusted his judgment that your quest was to be encouraged, even if I had little faith the outcome would be as favourable as he hoped."

"You did not expect us to survive." That was hardly surprising. Even the Company had been aware of the thin thread of hope their success hung upon, and that was without any foreknowledge of the hunters that would pursue them without relent for the duration of their journey. It was easy to become focused on the poorer outcomes of the venture, but in that moment Thorin was reminded of how fortunate they had been to reach the mountain at all, let alone survive any of what came after.

"I expected many things." Elrond neither agreed nor disagreed. "None of which, it may be said, were the eventual outcome. I fear I misjudged you. I did not believe you had the strength to overcome the curse inherited from your father and his father before him. It seems I was wrong."

"I wasn't aware elves ever admitted such things." Old habits die hard, it seemed, and the words slipped from his lips without a thought. 

"One cannot be counted among the Wise and have not the wisdom to see one's own flaws." Elrond was not Thranduil, and took no offence at his words. "Even I cannot see all ends, and it is no great burden to admit you surprised me. The seed of temptation sown by even fleeting contact with a Ring of Power is an insidious thing, a corruptive touch not easily cast off. Great leaders have succumbed before, great kings have fallen, very rarely do they rise again."

"You seem quite certain my grandfather's Ring played at least a part in his madness." Thorin frowned. "Why?"

Elrond's answer came in a question of his own. "Has Gandalf told you aught of what was found in Dol Guldur?"

"There was hardly time for tale telling on the road." At least, not tales of anything that did not directly involve himself and his nephews. Thorin's focus had been somewhat single-minded for the past few weeks, and he had not thought to ask after more than his own kinsmen. 

"Such tidings are better aired in lighter places," Elrond agreed sombrely. "You know already of the Necromancer who held power in those ruins. He was greatly feared, and with good reason. The being the woodsman called by so innocuous a name proved to be none other than the Dark Lord Sauron himself."

The air was not simply cold now, it was freezing, and Thorin unconsciously gripped the edge of the stone table in his hands. "That's impossible."

"We might wish it to be so," Elrond corrected. "But the possibility of his return was sealed by the inaction of one man an age ago. We have defeated him for the moment, driven him back into hiding, but it is a matter of time brought only. He will return, and we must ready ourselves for that eventuality."

"And Thror?" He almost hated the way the pieces were slipping into place. The puzzle clear in its completion, not muddled as it had been in the making. "You believe...?"

"I cannot speak with any certainty on the matter,” the Lord of Imladris replied. “The Seven never affected their bearers as one might expect, or perhaps _could not_ affect them as was intended, but the way in which events have unfolded would lend credence to the belief. Sauron did not return wielding an army to crush his enemies. He came with deception, acting to weaken those he was not yet strong enough to challenge. Erebor and Dale were pillars of strength in the East until the dragon came. How stand our defences in that corner of the world now?”

How indeed, with Dale in ruins and Erebor little better off? If it had been their enemy’s intention to weaken them then he had doubtlessly succeeded, decimating the strength of the East in one, fell blow. Dragonfire and madness that very nearly sent Durin’s Folk to their doom, crushed Dale, and turned Esgaroth into a den for the corrupt and cowardly to oppress their fellows. The East had all but died when Erebor fell, and had trod close to death again when the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed. Only the indomitable nature of its people had saved it, the strength of Dale’s survivors, and the determination of a mere dozen of his own kinsmen to reclaim what Smaug had stolen from them.

“If what you are saying is true,” he began slowly, every word measured. “And Sauron has returned, then the Battle of Five Armies was but a foray to test our strength.”

“Or we unwittingly pushed him into acting before his victory was a certainty,” Elrond offered an alternative explanation. “Either way, one thing is certain. The fight to reclaim your homeland is at an end; the battle to preserve the world is only just beginning.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

It was raining the first day Kíli was permitted to leave his bed without a warden at his side. A fine, delicate mist that caught upon the leaves of the evergreens, and made the courtyard turn into a glittering array of colours as the early morning sunlight was caught and reflected by every stray droplet. Seated a step above where dry stone turned damp, his hands clasped before him, Kíli watched nature’s magic at work, and tried to banish the shadows still haunting his family even in this place of peace and rest from his mind.

Nárran had promised them that Elrond would be able to aid them in ways he could not, and his words had not been false. Already Kíli had gained much of the dexterity in his arm, at least in comparison to the constant pain and numbness that had been his before, but strength was another matter, and Elrond had been no less guarded about the prognosis for Kíli’s shoulder than he had been for Fíli’s leg. Elvish magic could help, he had told them both, but even a skilled healer could only encourage the healing process, not force it to occur. Fíli may well be able to walk again, but he would still limp. Kíli would have the use of both his hands, but the right would still shake.

They would all survive, but that would not stop Thorin from blaming himself for what could have been.

He wished there was something he could do. Some magical lever that would flip the world upside down and set it to rights again. Some way to escape this vicious cycle of emotions, an attack that came again and again and left him more exhausted after each battle. He wanted things to go back to what they once were. He wanted his family to be the family they had been for more than just a few moments. He wanted his brother to stop feeling ashamed every time he struggled. He wanted Thorin to stop avoiding his nephews as if either of them were judging him for his actions. He wanted his mother to smile without strain lines around her eyes. He wanted to go home, but he did not know where home was any longer, and he feared that the place he associated with the name no longer existed.

“Are you alright?”

Startled, he whirled on the spot, and was surprised to find himself confronted by the sight of a young boy. Though he was clad in elvish garments the child was clearly of the race of men, and Kíli forgot his own troubles momentarily in the face of a surge of curiosity. What was a human child doing in Rivendell, clad in the clothes of the house’s Master, and comfortable enough to wear boots that were dirtier than Kíli had swiftly learned Lindir allowed? Of course, as soon as he had become aware of that fact ‘accidently’ traipsing in half the gardens had been swiftly adopted as a daily diversion.

Grinning at the thought, he directed that mirth into greeting the boy. “Quite alright,” he answered mischievously. “I am simply hiding from Lindir, lest he unleash his draconian wrath upon me.”

As he had hoped, those light-hearted words earned him a smile.

“Lindir isn’t that bad,” the boy assured him. “It’s Erestor you have to watch for.”

“Then I shall count myself lucky I have not yet met him. In fact, perhaps you had best point him out to me, so we can continue our mutually agreeable lack of acquaintance.” That earned him a light laugh and, grinning in response, he offered belated introductions. "Kíli, of Ered Luin, at your service.”

“Estel of Rivendell, at yours.” Somehow, it was not surprising the boy knew the proper response to the customary greeting of Durin’s Folk. The question that followed, however, _did_ surprise him, if only because it was the first time he had heard it. "Are you one of the princes?”

“I…” He floundered a moment, because what _was_ the answer to that? He was Thorin’s nephew, true, and one of his heirs, but if Thorin was not meaning to take back Erebor or his rightful crown then he was not a king and his nephews were not princes. “I suppose.”

Estel considered that answer for a moment, head tilted to the side and arms folded across his chest. “You don’t dress like a prince.”

Kíli laughed. “Blame Lindir for that,” he said in good humour. “It’s his fault I’m dressed like an elf.”

Actually, Rivendell had provided them with what was likely the closest approximation to their usual garb as could be managed. It was one of many things Kíli had reason to be grateful for, because almost none of his own garments had survived their enemies last attempt to kill them.

Apparently the mention of Lindir’s name was all the explanation required, for Estel did not seek elaboration, instead turning to a subject of far greater interest to a young boy. “Did you really slay a dragon?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t slay it. That was King Bard of Dale.” Even if he had only been Bard the Bowman at the time. It was another reminder that more lives than his had been dramatically changed by all that happened at Erebor, heroes emerging from all sorts of unexpected places. “Truth be told I didn’t even see it happen, but I’ve heard the story enough times to repeat it, if you’d like.”

In answer Estel took a seat on the steps beside him, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands as he fixed his grey eyes on Kíli’s face with avid attention. Remembering the many, many times he and his brother had adopted identical stances at their uncle’s feet around the fire Kíli smiled, and began to recount the grand tale of how Smaug the Terrible’s reign had come to an abrupt and justly deserved end.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

“It’s raining,” Dwalin grumbled, casting a glower at the sky as if it had let loose its waters in a deliberate attempt to offend him. “Of _course_ its raining.”

Keeping stride with his surly brother, Balin rolled his eyes beneath the safe cover of his hood, wishing he could blame Dwalin’s foul mood on the weather. Considering the same mood had been keeping him company like a third traveling companion since their departure from Erebor some weeks before, however, he could hardly blame it on the thunder rolling overhead. He had not seen his brother crack a smile in what seemed an age, and it had grown worse the nearer they drew to Eriador. Or rather, the nearer they drew to Dís, still without any answer as to where her youngest son had fled too. Balin would concede it was not a meeting he was looking forward to with any particular amount of joy either, but that hardly excused Dwalin’s persistent ill-temper.

“We’re only a few hours from the edge of the Wild,” he attempted to soothe Dwalin’s discontent. “We can find shelter there.”

Dwalin’s only response was a disgusted grunt, and Balin sighed to himself, deciding to leave his sibling to stew in the same silence that had defined the majority of their journey thus far. He supposed he should not complain really, because silence was far preferable to the various threats and slurs that had been thrown about concerning hobbits, wizards, elves, and foolish young princes who put their guardians through all levels of outright panic when they chose to apparently vanish into thin air. After Thorin and Fíli’s passing, Kíli’s disappearance had been the last, short straw, and Balin had been afraid Dwalin meant to carry out at least half of the threats he made in those first few hours. He hadn’t, Durin be thanked, but it had been a near thing, and the stormclouds that had gathered above the warmaster’s head that day were still lurking, the odd crackle of thunder bursting forth at the most unpredictable times.

Such as now, when he swung on his heel and hurled Grasper forcefully into the trees lining either side of their path. The ax hit wood with a solid ‘thunk’, the ominous sound echoed by laughter.

“Steady there, Master Dwarf!” Grinning, the elf whose movement had escaped Balin’s notice dropped from the foliage, landing lightly on the ground and approaching them both with empty hands raised. “We mean you no harm.”

“We?” Suspiciously, Dwalin adjusted his grip on Keeper, keeping a wary eye on the treeline.

“The elves of Imladris keep a watch on these borders.” The elf lowered his hands to his sides. “But we are not in the habit of setting upon innocent travellers, or even speaking to them, as a rule. I approached only because I believe I have seen you before. If I am not mistaken, you were both guests in my father’s house some months ago. Two of fourteen.”

“And what if we were?” Dwalin rumbled as Balin elbowed him in the side, a pointed yet silent command to lower his blade. Dwalin did so, but only after Balin had repeated the gesture twice more.

“I wish to extend Rivendell’s welcome to you a second time,” was the cordial answer. “And before you refuse, Master Dwarf, might I add that it was Lady Dís herself who set us to watch this particular path.

_What in Durin’s name_ …? Had he not told her to _wait_ for them? "Dís is in Rivendell?”

“She is,” the elf confirmed. “You may take my word for it, or I can have her sent for if you wish.”

“No, no, that’s quite alright.” Seeking to smooth over any feathers his brother might have ruffled, Balin was quick to speak. “You have our gratitude for saving us further unnecessary travel in this rain.” Dwalin snorted at that, but did not interrupt. “If I could trouble you but a little further to show us the way to Rivendell…?”

“I can do better than that.”

Turning, the elf strode back to the tree to retrieve Dwalin’s axe, passing it to the warmaster without comment as the rest of his company emerged from their hiding places within the trees. Balin was not surprised to see they had been completely surrounded, and gave Dwalin another meaningful shove to ensure his brother sheathed both his weapons.

Gesturing with one hand towards the treeline, the elf spoke again, “I will guide you to the hidden gates, if you are willing.”

That last was added with a leery glance Dwalin’s way, and Balin quickly voiced agreement on both his and his brother’s behalf, falling into step beside their appointed guide, with Dwalin stalking silently a step behind.

Elrohir, as their guide named himself in a less than formal introduction, remained in a congenial mood for the duration of their journey despite Dwalin’s unhidden hostility, laughing outright at the two dwarves’ confusion when they were met at Rivendell’s border by his twin. Elladan was more reserved, if no less polite, taking charge of them both to allow his brother to return to his company. He did not force conversation between them, allowing his guests their silence as the sobriety of what news they would soon have to impart fully sunk in. Balin had felt it only right to inform Dís of what had happened, but he had hoped, rather vainly, he admitted, that they might have found Kíli before any confrontation with Dís occurred. It appeared he was to be granted no such mercy, and so he instead set about steeling his nerves, mentally preparing the words necessary to properly confess their failure without risking their necks.

He had the speech prepared in his mind by the time they crossed the narrow bridge into the same courtyard that had hosted their first arrival in the elven sanctuary, only to be jolted from his musings when Dwalin seized his forearm in a grip so tight it bordered on painful. He cast a glance his brother’s way, and was shocked to find a frozen expression on the younger dwarf’s face. Rarely was Dwalin so unguarded, his lips parted and eyes round.

Durin’s beard, he was even _paling_.

Alarmed, searching for the cause of such a reaction, Balin followed the path of his brother’s gaze. He blinked. Once. Twice. The sight before his eyes did not change, and he passed a hand across his face, convinced his mind was failing him.

“Balin, Dwalin.” Stepping forward with no apparent concern for the way in which the two dwarves were outright staring, Thorin greeted them with an honest smile. “It is about time you joined us.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't really know if Sauron was meant to have anything to do with the downfall of Erebor, but his master was the creator of the father of all dragons, and it's made quite clear in the movie that Sauron could potentially use Smaug as the perfect tool to set all of Middle Earth on Fire. There's also the matter of Thror, a holder of one of the Seven, losing his marbles not too far off timewise from when Sauron starting making a reemergence. Coincidences, probably, and most likely a shameless divergence from canon, but it worked and I went with it. I've never really been sold on the whole idea that the Arkenstone was the cause of all the corruption going on in Erebor. If that were truly the case, I can't see Dain and his lot happily burying it in Thorin's tomb. I know Smaug's evil villain monologue to Bilbo in the movie hinted at the fact that Arkenstone was responsible for a lot of what went wrong, but, nah, not buying it.


	29. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: * Sneaks in, drops chapter, sneaks off*. XD, just kidding. Honestly, I have no idea how this chapter got written so quickly, and I was somewhat torn between posting it now as a present to all my lovely, patient readers or holding it back so that my inner critic could rip it to shreds. Seeing as my inner critic is something of an ass, I chose the former option, so here's to hoping that wasn't a mistake. There's quite a bit of self-indulgence in this chapter, where I make vague insinuations and hints about characters whose backstories I spent hours formulating for a prequel story that never got written, but have nevertheless managed to be stuck in my head. Hopefully nothing too intrusive, but I'm sure you'll let me know.
> 
> Happy reading,
> 
> TTC

 

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 29**

**_Reunion _ **

The room was dark when Dís entered it, the curtains drawn across the windows and every candle doused. It was not an uncommon occurrence of late, but that did not make her heart ache any less for this child of hers that chose to swathe himself in darkness. Her golden son, who had carried the burden of an inheritance that may never be his for all his years, and was judged no more harshly by anyone than himself. Fíli knew his duty, what was expected of him, what _would_ be expected of him, and that surety, which had kept him steady on his course thus far, had proved to his detriment when pitted against this new challenge.

“Fíli?” Stepping inside she closed the door softly behind her, drifting across the room to light one of the candles she knew she would find resting there on the dresser. Turning, she felt her heart clench a second time as her eyes fell upon the dejected sight of her eldest son.

It had clearly been a bad day.

Crossing the space between them she took a seat beside the limp form on the mattress, ignoring the way his fixed stare remained on the ceiling as she set the candle on the bedside table and reached out to finger his braids. They had become tangled since that morning, and she began rebraiding them without a thought.

“Your father would have been horrified.” She felt him stiffen, could feel the tension in the air, knew what he was expecting, and happily evaded those expectations. “He always hated the dark. Every time he set foot in either of your bedrooms at night without a light he came out limping.”

Of course, Nali had had more reasons than a simple dislike for repeatedly stubbing his toe to loathe the darkness, but if there was anything he had taught her in their too brief time together, it was that even the worst memories carried with them a glimmer of hope. If not for those who lived through them, then for those who followed after, who would see it was possible to endure.

“Then again,” she said musingly, aware of his eyes resting on her face. His father’s eyes. “I’m not sure he could really blame it on the lack of light. He was always tripping over something or other. It used to drive your uncle mad. I think he even banished Nali from the forge once, and Durin forbid anybody let him down a mineshaft.”

“Was he really that bad?” Fíli asked curiously, and she smiled at the same time as she regretted having kept such memories to herself for so long. Fíli and Kíli had heard little of their father from her lips, what they knew of him uttered largely by others, because for her the grief had been too close for too long. But perhaps there had been a purpose to that, if the stories she had not told then could be of help now.

“Oh, he was terrible,” she nodded, shooting him a sidelong smile. “The very first time we met he fell on top of me… _off_ a pony, which was standing still, I might add. Poor Dwalin didn’t know whether to laugh or beat him silly for the indignity of it. Of course, the latter path might not have been as easy as he thought. He might have been a clumsy fool when off the battlefield, but I’ve never seen anyone who could dodge a blow like your father could. Thorin used to put him in the ring with four or five others and tell them to try and land a hit. They never could.”

There was no need to tell him where that skill in slipping away from harm had come from. Not now he was slowly being coaxed from his self-imposed shell. Nor was there any need to mention that, when Nali’s time had come, no amount of nimbleness had saved him from the arrow that stole his life.

“It was the same with his forging, too. He couldn’t have made a decent sword or axe to save himself, but silver work, delicate things that would drive the likes of Dwalin mad? He had a talent for that, and a talent for talking, which was just as well, considering the number of unavoidable disagreements that tend to occur with as many different clans living side by side as there are in Ered Luin.” She paused, tying off the last of his braids and letting her fingers hover over the woven strands. “I wish he were here now. He would know what to say to Thorin. To your brother.” She glanced at him, smile tinged with sadness. “To you.”

Fíli's breath hitched in his chest, his gaze slipping away from hers to the corner of the room, seeking sanctuary in the shadows that lingered there. Dís waited a beat, hoping, then, when he did not speak, she said, “Will you not tell what happened?”

She already had more than an inkling, for he was not the first of her sons to have required a mother’s wisdom today. She had already spoken with Kíli, doing her best to smooth over the hurt his elder brother’s actions had caused, to sow understanding before a sense of betrayal could take its place. She knew what had happened, but she needed to hear it from his own lips, and at length her patience was rewarded in words both soft and shamed.

“I fell again.” He paused, his jaw working as he fought to hide whatever he thought she did not wish to see. “I didn't... I wasn't... I couldn't even make it across the _room_ without... without...”

“You managed yesterday,” she reminded him, thinking wistfully of the beaming smile that had adorned his features as he leant against his brother in exhausted glee, and the way Kíli’s grin had been just as broad as his brother’s.

“And today I am useless again,” he snapped back at her. “It was only a few steps, and I couldn't even manage that!”

“You simply need time.”

“I don't want time!” he raged at her. “I want to be better! I want to be useful! I want to stop being the thing that almost gets my brother _killed_!”

His mouth snapped shut on that last word, a confession he had not meant to make, but Dís would not let it lie. This darkness had clung for too long already.

“What do you mean?” He turned away again, refusing to meet her gaze, and she sighed, trying a different tactic. “I wish you would talk to Kíli. He was very upset that you sent him away.”

“I don't care.” The quaver in those muttered words betrayed him. “I didn't want him there.”

“Why? He's your _brother_ , Fíli, he's not going to think any less of you because you find this difficult. None of us are.”

“I wish he would. He's better off without me.”

She stilled, brow furrowed as she turned to him in consternation. “And why in Durin's name would you think a thing like that?”

“I almost got him killed, ma!” His voice was plaintive this time, eyes damp when he turned to her. “He got hurt trying to protect _me_ , because I couldn't protect myself.”

“You were injured, Fíli, it wasn't...”

“And I'm not getting better!” Frustrated and distraught, he pounded a fist against the mattress. “I should have been able to do something, but instead I just endangered everybody more. Kíli was wounded because of me. Again.”

“Again? Fíli, when...?”

“His shoulder,” Fíli explained miserably. “He ruined it saving me. If he'd never taken that shot, he might... And before that... If I'd spoken up sooner in Erebor, he would have been with us. Thorin would have let him stay, and Kíli wouldn't have been hurt at all.”

“Or maybe he would be dead.” She did not mean to be harsh, but she could not fully quell the remnants of fear and grief that had been hers for so long. “Maybe you would _all_ be dead.” He was staring at her now, wide-eyed, but she did not stop. “If Kíli hadn't been standing where he was when he was, could he still have stopped Azog's warg? If he had been with you, standing at your shoulder, would you not all have been overrun, cut down and killed? You cannot look back and think what might have been different had you not done this or that. Maybe Thorin would have banished you both. Maybe you could have changed his mind. Maybe things would have been better. Maybe they would have been worse. And they could be worse, Fíli, so much worse. Kíli has forgiven you for any harm you think you might have done to him, but if you push him away now, when you need each other the most...”

“I don't want him to get hurt because of me,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me. Because I can't fight. Because I can't even _walk_. Maybe Thorin should just disinherit me, it would be easier for everyone if...”

Dís laughed, though it was not a sound of humour. Fíli cast her a confused glance, and she answered him sadly, “Do you think Kíli would thank you for that burden?”

“No,” he admitted, some small measure of clarity dawning in his eyes, because even lost in his own darkness Fíli knew his brother better than that. “He would hate me for it.”

“There is precious little you could do that would make your brother hate you, and even less you could say that would convince Thorin to disinherit you.” Exhaling softly, she folded her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to watch his face as she continued, “Tell me, Fíli, if it were Thorin who had been injured in your place, would you think him any less worthy of the crown? Do you think his people would see him as any less worthy? Was it his prowess in fighting that won him the love of Erebor's exiled people? Was it his victories in battle that earned him yours?”

“No.” Fíli's voice was small and lost. “But it's not the same.”

“What three things has your uncle always held above all others when choosing his companions? Come now, I know you have the words memorised.”

Grudgingly, he answered by rote, “Loyalty, honour, a willing heart.”

“And where among those words lurks a requirement for sound limbs and a warrior's skill?”

“Nowhere, but...”

“No buts, Fíli . If you think your skills on the battlefield are the only quality of worth you have to offer then it is clear both your uncle and myself have been remiss in your instruction. Your heart knows better, even if your head does not.”

“Ma...”

She raised a finger, silencing him. “Have I ever lied to you, even once, even to spare you pain?”

He could only shake his head to that, for, though her sons may have been raised in safety, they had never been shielded from what lay beyond those borders.

“So you must trust me now,” she concluded. “Things will get better, Fíli, they will. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not before they get worse. But one day you will wake up and realise that the shadows have gone, and that is the day when you will know the struggle was worth it. I want you to promise me you will not give up before then, and I want you to promise you will not push Kíli away. He needs you just as much as you need him. You are stronger together, you always have been, and you always will be.”

“Ma...” It was a loss of words that silenced him this time, a wealth of emotions reflected in his blue eyes .

“Do I have your word?” She needed to hear him say it, for his word was something he had never broken.

Fíli propped himself up on his elbows until he was sitting level with her, leaning forward and wrapping his arms about her as he whispered, “I promise.”

It was a breath of relief that escaped through her parted lips as she returned his hold, still grasped by the wonder that her son was here, alive in her arms, and not a cold corpse on a distant battlefield. She might have stayed like that for hours, Fíli just as comfortable to rest in her embrace, had the door not burst open and a certain hobbit stumbled in.

“Come quickly,” Bilbo said somewhat breathlessly. “They're here.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Thorin could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Balin at a loss for words and still have fingers to spare. A dwarf of Balin’s age and experience was not so easily astonished, and even those rare occasions he could recall had been but a few moments of silence, seconds grasped to regather his wits. Nothing like now. Nothing like the blank shock that had overtaken his features, and the single word that had spilled from his lips again and again from the moment they set eyes on one another as he tugged on his beard looking equal parts confused and wondering

“How?”

Dwalin, for his part, was alternating between pounding his old friend soundly on the back with more force than was strictly necessary and shaking his head as he muttered to himself in disbelief. Acceptance was coming slowly, for these two shared Thorin's own experience of tragedy, and knew always to expect the worst. To be delivered with something other than death and devastation was surely shocking, and both were still coming to grips with the reality presented to them when Dís arrived.

“Dwalin,” she called from the top of the steps, her voice jovial and pleasant. “Do please stop beating my brother, he has had more than enough of that to last him a lifetime. Balin, you are going to pull that beard clean off if you are not careful, and then what a fool you shall look.”

“Lady Dís,” Dwalin greeted her with warmth only slightly smothered by the awkward formality he always adopted around Thorin's sister. Balin didn't even notice Dís, his eyes instead falling upon the young dwarf she was helping down the stairs.

Standing in the spot, his eyes misting with joy, he whispered, “Fíli, lad...”

Dwalin had no such reserve, barking a laugh as he stormed to the bottom of the steps to engulf Fíli in an embrace that lifted him clean off his feet, his crutches clattering loudly on the stone landing. Balin took a step forward, then paused, turning to Thorin, a sudden fear in his eyes.

“Where is Kíli?” he asked worriedly. “Please tell me the lad didn't...”

“Kíli is fine.” Though a part of him wanted to point out that his nephew may well have been better off if even a single soul in the Company had bothered to listen to his words, the more charitable side of his nature set such thoughts aside for the time being. “I'm afraid you've missed a great deal in your absence, old friend.”

“Yes.” Balin watched as Dwalin set Fíli on his feet again, guiltily retrieving the dropped crutches as Dís remonstrated him for not taking more care and Fíli outright laughed at the bold warrior's sudden contriteness. “I still don't believe...” Shaking his head, he reached out to grasp Thorin's shoulder, more gently than Dwalin, but no less enthusiastically. “You're really here. How?”

“That is a long story.” Thorin found himself smiling. “Come in out of this rain, and perhaps Master Baggins will be kind enough to share it.”

Bilbo, who had been hovering somewhat warily at the fringes of their reunion, now unwittingly found himself the centre of attention.

“Burglar!” Dwalin growled, stepping forward menacingly. Bilbo flinched slightly, but held his ground, and Thorin watched with some amusement as the halfling met the warmaster glare for glare.

“Yes,” he said daringly. “Me. I imagine you'll be wanting to thank me, and Gandalf, and Kíli too. Isn't it just as well some of us had a little faith in him?”

Dwalin's face contorted into an expression that defied explanation, but the anger drained from his frame, and he settled instead for belting Bilbo on the shoulder with enough force to send the hobbit stumbling.

“It's good to see you again, Master Baggins,” he said, giving the halfling a final thump before turning and searching the gathering with his eyes. “Now, tell me, where is that miscreant of a prince?”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Kíli was in the midst of a vivid recounting of the dwarves’ escape from Mirkwood via barrel and a burglar’s ingenuity when Alatair happened upon he and his one-man audience. The archer had not seen any of the rangers who saved his rescue attempt from turning into an outright disaster since arriving in Rivendell, and so rose to greet their leader with eager attentiveness, interrupting his tale midsentence.

“There is no need to stop on my account,” Alatair spoke before he could find the words. “I was rather enjoying hearing of your many adventures.”

“It wasn’t anywhere near as fun as it sounds, trust me.” Kíli shook his head, smiling, then took note of the ranger’s choice of raiment. “Are you leaving?”

“For a short while,” Alatair nodded. “My company has been away from home for a long time. The men are eager to see their families, and we must report to Lord Halbaron on all that we did and did not find. We shall be back in a month or two, I expect, to retrieve those too wounded to travel now, if nothing else. Until then I trust they will be in good hands?”

This last was addressed at Estel, who nodded gravely in response, a gesture that was not quite as stately as he no doubt hoped. “Of course.”

“Good man,” Alatair gave the boy a pat on the shoulder, then turned to Kíli. “You shall have to come back to Eriador some day, Prince Kíli, to tell us all how this tale ends.”

“I owe you a great debt,” Kíli answered, for without Alatair and his men they would never have made it to Tol Ascarnen, let alone Rivendell. Their flight would have ended in the cold, inhospitable reaches of the Ettenmoors, the choices they now faced never needing making. “We all do.”

“Well, who knows?” Alatair replied with a wry smile. “Perhaps some day I will be fleeing a pack of wargs with half my company near death and I shall seek refuge with you. If not, do me a favour and stay out of trouble. From what I have heard, the lot of you have already delved into more than your fair share.”

“We certainly shan’t be seeking any more,” Kíli promised. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t find us.”

“No, indeed.” Alatair offered his hand. “I wish all the best to you and yours. May we meet again someday, under vastly better circumstances.”

“You’ll not hear any argument from me.” Grasping the proffered hand, Kíli bid the captain farewell, watching the tall man stride away. Only once he had gone did he remember himself, turning to his remaining companion as the evening dinner gong sounded in the distance.

Tilting his head towards the sound, Estel spoke reluctantly, “I had better go…”

“As had I.” Kíli nodded his agreement. “If only to make sure I actually _get_ some dinner.”

“I suppose I will see you tomorrow, then?” Hopeful, Estel bounded to the top of the steps, spinning to wait for his response.

“Of course,” he answered. “I have yet to tell you how our burglar saved us from becoming dinner ourselves.”

Estel grinned, turning on his heel and dashing down the corridor as the last echoes of the bell faded away. Kíli turned in the opposite direction, away from the dining hall and towards the private rooms where he and his family still supped. He had yet to figure out whether that was by Thorin’s preference or because Lindir was trying to avoid a repeat of the last occasion where dwarves had dined in Rivendell. But, whilst the consideration was humorous, he knew that in truth it was probably a choice neither had made. In all likelihood the decision had been Fíli’s, who seemed to view leaving their rooms for anything other than his healing sessions with Lord Elrond as an idea not even to be entertained.

And just like that the troubling thoughts he had shoved to the back of his mind came tumbling to the forefront once more, his latest argument with his brother turning his smile into a discontented scowl as he wove his way through the corridors back to his chambers. Dís had told him his brother needed time, that this was difficult for Fíli, but he knew that, he truly did. That was _why_ he wanted to help, why he did not understand when every stumble Fíli made turned into anger directed at himself. Sometimes he almost thought Fíli blamed him. If he had just been a little faster, if he hadn’t waited so long to follow his heart despite what all others were _telling_ him he should believe…

If he began any more thoughts with the word ‘if’, he was going to drive himself insane.

Slapping a smile on his face in preparation for facing his uncle and mother, he pushed opened the door to their shared quarters, only to come to a dead halt when he realized they were not alone. The entire room looked up at his entrance, but no one moved, no one even spoke, and at length he felt obliged to break the silence.

“I…”

 

He got no further than that one word before Dwalin shoved his chair back with a screech of wood against stone, the warmaster lumbering across the room to stand before him, the extra few inches of height he held on the archer seeming like miles to Kíli.

“You…” He raised his arms as Kíli made an effort not to flinch, his fingers flexing as he wavered between laying them on the young dwarf’s shoulders or not. “You… _you_ … Lad, I don’t know whether to hug you or shake you. Do you have _any_ idea how worried we were? What a fright you gave us all? By Aule, Kíli, could you not at least have left a _note_?”

“I…” His eyes flickered past Dwalin to the table where Balin was seated between Thorin and Fíli, Dís on her eldest son’s right hand. None of them had moved to intervene, leaving him to defend his actions himself. And so he did. “I didn’t want you to follow me. I didn’t want you to try and stop me, so I made sure you wouldn’t.”

Dwalin stood for a moment, the weight of his hands like a mountain of judgment upon Kíli’s shoulders, then, to Kíli’s great astonishment, he began to laugh.

“Ha!” he bellowed, swinging an arm about Kíli’s neck and tugging him forward as he turned back towards the table. “Did you hear that, Balin? Stubbornness through and through, that is. You’ve brought him up good and proper, Thorin.”

Balin did not answer his brother’s words, rising as Kíli drew near and Dwalin slipped back to his own seat, his regard steady as he met the young prince’s gaze.

“I have never,” he began. “ _Never_ been so glad to be wrong as I am today. I owe you an apology, lad.” Dwalin nodded, laughter buried beneath momentary sobriety. “We all do. You have a better head on your shoulders than any of us gave you credit for, and we were wrong to dismiss you so swiftly.”

“But you didn’t have any reason to believe me,” he protested. “I know that.”

“You’re Thorin’s nephew, Dís’ son,” Dwalin corrected him. “That’s more reason than any dwarf should need.”

Kíli still hesitated, uncomfortable, his eyes roving across the table for some sort of advice as to how he should respond to such an apology from his elders. In the end it was Fíli who caught his eye, none of the anger that had been there when last he met his brother’s gaze present, instead a simple sense of merriment and amusement.

“Take a seat, Ki,” he advised. “Master Baggins is about to tell your tale again.”

 

 

 


	30. The Troubled East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which Thorin is indecisive, Dain was playing a dangerous game from the very beginning, Dis is scary, and Fili and Kili enjoy a well-earned break. Or something like that. This is another chapter threaded through with little tit-bits of a back story I outlined, scribbled some stuff for, and never got around to fully writing. I hope you'll all forgive that bit of self-indulgence, but, unfortunately, as this story was originally meant to be part of an ambitious series I have no idea why I ever thought I'd have enough time to write, there are some things that rely things that would have happened in the past had I ever accomplished said ambitious goals. All will be explained in due time, of course, without the need for a prequel that is as ridiculously huge as this.
> 
> Also, how in the heck did we get to Chapter 30? XD
> 
> Read, comment, and enjoy.
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 30**

**_The Troubled East_ **

“I never thought I'd see you so relaxed in an elven kingdom."

Taking his pipe from his mouth, Thorin tapped it against the balustrade to empty it of loose ash as his eyes drifted across the view below. Even at night Rivendell was a realm of light, bathed in soft silver hues and echoing with the distant sound of elvish singing. It was peaceful, even if it wasn't home, and he lifted one shoulder in a shrug as Balin joined him on the balcony.

“Things change.”

“Aye.” The white haired dwarf gave a slow nod. “They do.”

Silence fell between them. The comfortable sort that came from years spent in one another's company. Thorin was content to wait, knowing that, despite the tales that had been spun into the small hours of the night, Balin was certain to have questions. Elaborations and explanations that had been avoided in an effort to keep spirits high. It was just the two of them now, though, adrift in the dark hours. In that time where more sober words had passed between them than at any other."

“I'm sorry.”

He wasn't expecting an apology. Bewildered, he turned to the older dwarf. “Whatever for?”

“For doubting the lad,” Balin sighed heavily, gripping the stone railing in his hands. “We were hard on him, Thorin, too hard.”

He did not answer at once, collecting his thoughts, and letting the simmering anger he had unwittingly cultivated settle into something more tepid. He had been – perhaps still was – angry at the company for the way in which they had treated Kíli. If he was being brutally honest, however, nothing they had said or done held a candle to the wounds he himself had inflicted. He had no right to judge them, particularly not when he understood their actions better than he did his own.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he said at last. “Not to me. Had I been in your place, I may not have believed Kíli either. He had no reason to hope, not truly. No proof but what his heart told him, and you and I both learnt long ago that the heart is not always a trustworthy guide.”

“Still...” Balin shook his head, showing his age more than he ever had before. “He was grieving and we pushed him. Pushed him too far.”

“Of course you did. It's the way we were raised. To put duty above all things. You, me, Dwalin, we've never known anything else, so we expect nothing else. It is different for the boys, all the more so for Kíli. I was far too lenient with him in his youth. I'm afraid I left him ill prepared for the worst of outcomes.”

“You didn't say that to him, though, surely?” Balin looked alarmed.

“Of course not!” Thorin retorted. “I told him what he had achieved was a miracle, and I meant it. Perhaps he did not take the throne in Erebor as he should have. Perhaps he did not give as much thought to the welfare of his people as others would have in his place, but not all of us are born to be kings, and not all leaders sit upon thrones. Kíli is not me, or Dain, or any one of the many youths who have been called to lead before their time. He has his own strengths, and there is no shame in that.”

Because, despite his youngest nephew's age relative to what his own had been when facing the same trials, Kíli was still a child in ways that Thorin had never been. That Balin and Dwalin, Dain, and so many others of that generation had never been. Thorin had made certain of that. He had wanted his nephews to have a childhood. To have what had been taken from him and his brother and his sister, and where he had been forced to rein in Fíli with the bonds and burdens of his inheritance, Kíli had been too often left to his own devices.

It had not been a kindness, in the end. When the throne came to Kíli and he, being neither the firstborn nor raised beneath the sternness of Thorin's own upbringing, baulked at the very idea. Irresponsible as it might have seemed in the eyes of others, Thorin could hardly blame Kíli for his reaction. Yes, he was older than Thorin or Dain had been when faced with the same predicament, but they had been raised with the knowledge of what they were to become and how they would reach that end. Kíli had grown up expecting to keep his freedom, and had instead found himself bound by shackles of grief and duty that had only become his because they could not ensnare his dead brother. 

It had not been a kindness, perhaps, but he did not regret it. Kíli's youth, the naïveté and innocence and sheer unpreparedness this quest and its aftermath had shown he possessed, was the only reason any of them were still here. The traits that had caused him to shy away from the throne like a frightened deer were the very same qualities that had protected him from the gold sickness. That had kept his childish hope that his family had survived alive. That had brought them all here, together, when Fate itself had seemed set against them.

His quest, such a very different endeavour than that to retake their homeland, had won over the hearts of many Thorin would never have expected to raise a finger to help. Beings who should have known better than to embark on such a foolhardy venture, yet, at the same time, were drawn by its allure. How many of them had themselves lost loved ones upon the battlefield? How many of them had wished, as he once had, for there to be that chance to _not_ have to say goodbye? Seasoned warriors like himself and Balin knew better than to make such wishes now, but Kíli had not, and by some miracle of Fate, or perhaps just a fool’s luck, his gamble had been rewarded.

By all rights Thorin should have scolded him for coming after them. For risking his life and the endurance of the family line when such things were no longer his possession alone. But, after all that had passed between them before the battle, what could he have said? How could he have rebuked his nephew for refusing a throne Thorin had told him he no longer had any right to? How could he have censured any of Kíli’s actions when his own were so much worse? What punishment did one dish out for a quest that would have ended in death if it failed?

He could not chastise Kíli for having succeeded in rescuing them, and whatever shortcomings might have marked his other actions hardly needed pointing out by him. Others had done so sufficiently before Kíli even left the mountain. Balin, Dwalin, even Dain, and Kíli’s quiet words in Tol Ascarnen spoke eloquently of his understanding in how he had fallen short of expectations. They also, he mused, had more than adequately spelled out the fact that Kíli did not care. To him, family came before duty, and he had acted accordingly.

“He thought of Erebor in the end,” Balin offered quietly, breaking into his thoughts. “Giving it to Dain as he did was for the good of the mountain and its people. He didn't just not want the throne, he honestly believed no good would come from him taking it.”

“I know the feeling.” Intimately and intently, as it happened.

“Thorin?” Balin was looking at him quizzically now.

“I never set out to find myself a throne, Balin.” His old friend knew that well enough, but did not interrupt to say so. “All I was looking for was a home for my people. Our home. Perhaps justice for those who had fallen. And what did I find? Old ghosts and demons fit to haunt an entire kingdom.”

Balin was silent behind him, content to listen, or perhaps without the words to say.

“How does one go back after that?” he wondered aloud. “How would I look Bard in the eye after the horror we unleashed on Esgaroth? How would I face Dain knowing I almost left him and his on that battlefield to die?”

“We all made mistakes, laddie,” the old dwarf said gravely. 

“Mistakes, Balin?” He laughed softly, tilting his head back as he tried to control the emotions bleeding through into his voice. “I very nearly ruined us. My nephews will bear the scars of my mistakes for the rest of their lives. My people's homecoming will forever be overshadowed by madness and death. These are not mistakes, my old friend, they are failures.”

“So face them,” Balin said matter-of-factly. “Like the Son of Durin you are.”

“Was,” Thorin corrected him. “Everything has changed.”

“Thorin...” There was a hint of frustration to Balin's voice now. The lecture he was preparing to deliver never came, however, swallowed by his brother's brusque utterance. 

“Tell him,” Dwalin said, lounging against the doorframe with a dark frown on his face.

“Tell me what?” he inquired, eyes flicking between the pair. “Balin?”

The elder brother hesitated, his gaze lingering on Dwalin as they engaged in a silent conversation. Thorin waited, impatient and unease rising, until Balin finally turned back to him.

“All is not precisely... _well_ in Erebor.” Tugging absently on his beard, the elderly dwarf shook his head. “Kíli’s departure kicked up more of a fuss than I’m sure he intended, and the fact he apparently vanished into thin air afterwards hardly helped matters. We of the Company suspected Gandalf and Bilbo were involved, of course, but there were others who saw an opportunity and took it. Dain is in control for the time being, but his hold on the throne is tenuous at best, and there are more than there should be who would like to see him gone. Erebor has brought out the worst in all our kin, it seems, and the Council of Seven is doing little to help matters.”

“How can anyone challenge Dain's right to rule?” Thorin frowned, perplexed and concerned. “He has a blood claim.”

“Rumours, Thorin,” answered Balin. “They're dirty things, and the last Nori heard someone was spreading the word Dain had had more to do with Kíli 's disappearance than any decent and honourable dwarf should.”

It took a moment to sink in, and when it did he spoke his incredulity aloud, “They believe Dain deliberately orchestrated Kíli’s departure?”

“Worse,” Dwalin told him grimly. “There’s been talk of assassinations. Kíli’s, and before that yours, orchestrated upon the battlefield.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, waving off the very idea for more reasons than the most obvious.

“We know,” Balin assured him. “And so should everyone else. But wherever these rumours are coming from, the source is treated as reputable. All the more so after it was discovered the Arkenstone was never buried in your tomb.”

His mind churning, Thorin picked at this new puzzle. “I thought the Council didn't want Kíli on the throne?”

“They didn't,” Dwalin confirmed. “Which begs the question of who they really have in mind.”

“I'm not yet convinced they don't all want a chance at it,” Balin added. “Dain has a blood claim, certainly, but not as irrefutable a right as you would have in his place, and with this talk of assassination and accusations of theft his right to rule has been brought into a more questionable light than should be possible. At this rate it will be a miracle if anyone manages to call himself King Beneath the Mountain without inciting a war.”

“Durin's Folk aren't saved yet,” Dwalin concluded gruffly. “The fight's not over, Thorin. We need you.”

“No.” He shook his head, instinctively taking a step back. “You need a King.”

“I'm looking at one right now,” Balin grumbled. “He just needs a good whack over the head to remind him of the fact.”

“Balin!”

“No matter what happened beneath that Mountain – events we _all_ had a part to play in, might I had - they're still your people, Thorin,” the aged dwarf continued stubbornly. “They always will be. You spent too many years proving yourself to them for it to be otherwise. You promised them a home and you've delivered on that promise. But it won't be theirs, truly theirs, until their King sits upon the throne. The Mountain needs you, Thorin. Erebor needs her King.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The arrow flew from the string, wobbled like a drunken miner on the road home, and plunged into the garden several meters right of its intended target. Kíli stood a moment, fighting to keep a grin off his face, before deeming it a lost cause and laughing at the putout expression on Fíli’s face.

“That was awful,” he stated shamelessly. “Would you like to try again?”

Fíli favoured him with a glower for his efforts, huffing slightly as he lowered his arm and rolled his shoulders to ease muscles not used to this particular exercise. “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” he grumbled, watching their self-appointed retriever dive into the undergrowth to rescue the lost arrow – and the ten or so that had preceded it – with more enthusiasm than the task probably warranted. “And I certainly don’t know why I agreed to do it with _you_.”

“You needed the fresh air,” Kíli answered cheerfully. “Besides, do you really want anyone else to see how terrible you are at this?”

“Give me a few good throwing axes and I’ll show you exactly how terrible I can be,” Fíli threatened, and Kíli quickly held up his hands in surrender, turning instead to gratefully accept the arrows Estel had retrieved whilst they bickered. Sliding all but one back into the quiver resting at his feet he handed the last to his disenchanted sibling.

Fíli took it with a scowl, eyeing the target on the other side of the courtyard as though it had done him some great ill.

“I could move it closer, if you like,” Estel offered, perched upon the stone wall surrounding the courtyard, the best seat from which to track Fíli’s errant shafts.

Fumbling as he nocked his arrow, Fíli cast him a thoughtful look. “Is that how you learned?”

“Oh, no.” Estel grinned. “Elladan and Elrohir used to move it further away every time I missed, and pretend they were moving it closer. They gave that up when I started shooting at _them_.”

“We could try that as well,” Fíli said, considering, and Kíli laughed again.

“I have nothing to fear,” he said. “At the moment you’re hitting everything but what you aim for.”

“Don’t remind me.” Shaking his head, Fíli lifted the bow, waiting with an exaggerated air of patience for Kíli to correct his stance, and then loosing his arrow. It flew straight and true this time… straight over the target.

“By Durin’s beard…” Fíli groaned, throwing his hands up into the air, before whipping his head around to address their one-man audience. “Estel, come down here and shoot this for me, would you? Or, better yet, shoot my brother. He’s enjoying this far too much.”

“Do not put ideas in his head.” Both dwarves whirled at the interruption, Kíli instinctively moving to catch his sibling’s elbow when the motion cost him his carefully arranged balance. Ignoring that brief stumble, Elrohir continued cheerfully, “There are enough in there already that it is a wonder Rivendell has survived this long.”

“Lord Elrohir, Lord Elladan.” Using Kíli as an effective replacement for his crutches, Fíli dropped into a bow, dragging his younger brother with him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I cannot decide whether you are mocking me or not,” Elrohir said slowly, casting a conspiring glance Elladan’s way, and ignoring the long-suffering look his twin pinned him with for it. “But you are certainly making a mockery of this archery range.”

“I know, I know.” Huffing slightly, Fíli took the words in the good humour they were intended. “In fact, I think I had best stop before I completely decimate the gardens.” Turning to Kíli, he added, “Sorry, Ki, but it looks like I’m going to have to stick with knives and axes for now.”

“On the contrary, Master Fíli,” Elladan interjected with less joviality than his brother, but an equal amount of enthusiasm. “I am certain that, together, we shall make an archer of you yet.”

“Oh, well,” taken aback, Fíli stumbled over his response. “I do not want to be a bother.”

“‘Tis no bother,” Elrohir assured him. “You are, without a doubt, the most curious guests to have inhabited my father’s halls in a long time. This is a perfect opportunity to thoroughly and shamelessly ply you with questions, whilst all the while maintaining a perfect excuse for being in your company. After all,” he added, with a significant glance at the boy balancing upon the wall above them all. “We cannot all just say ‘please’ and know the answer will be ‘yes’.”

“Don’t listen to him, Estel.” Elladan waved away his twin’s words. “He is simply jealous. Now, why don’t you come down from there and remind us exactly why we stopped moving that target?”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

****

“Assassination…” Drawing in a deep breath, Dís lowered the cloak she was stitching to her lap, staring at the woven threads rather than trying to track her brother’s progress back and forth across the room. She was glad the boys were not here to hear this. Glad they had been granted at least a few hours in which to be free of the responsibilities their heritage demanded of them. She and Thorin had no such reprieve, however, and it was with a heavy heart that she answered Thorin’s recounting of all Balin had confided in him the night before. “That is a bold accusation to make. Dain is not without his allies.”

“Or his enemies, it would seem.” Thorin shook his head, never missing a beat as he pounded a steady rhythm on the stone floor. “I do not like this, Dís. Thus far Erebor has proven to be nothing more than a light shone upon the darkest and most dire of our deeds, and yet we continue to commit the same. For the Council to allow it to turn to violence… to perhaps be _prompting_ that violence… What do they think they will achieve?”

“We knew all was not well there,” she reminded him as calmly as she could manage. “It has been a long time since the Seven were truly united. I suspect there were more reasons than we knew keeping them from offering you any aid in your quest. A mountain full of gold and treasures, and not _one_ of them thought it worth the risk?”

Pausing, he tilted his head at her. “There _was_ a dragon involved.”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” She had to concede that point. A fairly valid one, really. “But there is also the matter of Azog pursuing you across the Wilderlands. There was no reason for him to know of your journey. Someone had to have sent word to him, or spoken where they ought not to have.”

He did not argue the point, which told her as well as words could have that he had come to the same realization himself.

“I thought we were past this,” he said softly. “Doubting our own… It should have ended with Nali.”

“Clearly we missed a few bad apples.”     

“Indeed.” Sighing, he swung on his heel and came to sit beside her, uttering his concerns aloud without reserve, as it had always been between them. “Durin’s Folk cannot afford another war. Particularly not one that would see us pitted against out own. Erebor must not fall again. Not now.”

“You are worried,” she guessed, casting him a sidelong glance. “About what Lord Elrond said. Worried that it is true.”

“Of course I’m worried,” Thorin spoke with brutal honesty. “I would be a fool not to be. He is right in that the East is not what it once was, and if this turns to civil war whatever strength we regained through our struggles will quickly dissipate.”

She understood more than he was saying, and replied to that which went unspoken, “And yet you are still doubting yourself. Can you not see, Thorin, how desperately Erebor needs you right now?”

“Or how desperately it needs me to stay away,” he countered. “I could make matters so much worse.”

Her fingers clenched about the fabric in her hands, knuckles white, and her voice was tautly controlled as she answered, “I do not know what to say to you, Thorin. There are no words on this subject, I think, that have not been uttered. But if you do not go back, if you let this fear keep its hold on you, you will regret it forever.” Not waiting for him to reply, she gathered her breath and forged on. “As for myself, I intend to travel to Erebor as soon as Fíli and Kíli are ready and able to make the journey. I do not know whether the past has anything to do with what is happening in Erebor now, but, if those responsible for Nali’s death are still among the living, I promise you they will not long remain so.”

The look her brother gave her then was one of understanding. “You want revenge,” he said.

“No, Thorin,” Dís disagreed. “I want justice, and if you will not rise up to claim it alongside the crown and throne that are both rightfully yours, then I will take it for myself.”

 

 

 


	31. The Sons of Durin

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT III**

**-The Willing Hearts-**

**Chapter 31**

**_The Sons of Durin_ **

“I hate you,” Fíli muttered sourly, cringing as he levered himself up another step and felt again the painful pull of abused muscles. Kíli was practically bouncing with excitement beside him, finding the whole thing immensely entertaining, and Fíli might have resented his mirth had it not been so contagious. “Forget teaching, you just wanted to torture me, didn't you?”

“But you hit it in the end.” Still grinning like a buffoon, Kíli paused at the top step to wait for him. A day ago he probably would have offered a shoulder to lean on instead, but ever since Fíli snapped at him he'd been far more wary of giving help unasked. Fíli still felt slightly guilty about that, even if it was nice not to feel quite so smothered. “And I didn't hear any complaining then.”

Indignantly, and to catch his breath, he huffed. “Yes, well, congratulations, Ki. Your student can now hit the broad side of a warg that is standing very, very still. Give me a few more years and I might manage a moving target.”

“I'll just strap a target to one of Elrond's sons and tell them to run. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it soon enough.”

He snorted, choking a laugh so he could scold instead. “Stop it. And don't suggest that to Estel. You'll corrupt him.”

“You sound like Dori,” Kíli told him, leading the way down the hallways that would take them back to their rooms and the blessed opportunity to give his shoulders a rest. He would be on his feet again in a few hours for another healing session with their host, so it was not an opportunity to be wasted. “Besides, I hardly think he needs corrupting. Elladan and Elrohir seem to have managed that fine on their own.”

“I wager we could do better.” Momentarily forgetting the fact he was meant to be acting the part of the responsible older brother, Fíli shared a conspiratorial smile with his sibling.

“Last time you said that we ended up grounded for weeks,” Kíli reminded him, switching roles effortlessly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But it was worth it. Do you remember the look on Dwalin's face?”

Kíli snickered, then shuddered in mock terror. “I remember the look on Uncle's.”

“He was laughing,” Fíli insisted. “He just didn't want Dwalin to know.”

“Or us,” his sibling reflected ruefully, no doubt remembering the stern scolding that had prevented them from following through with step two of their grand plan; Balin's Beard. It had involved a great many references to responsibility and the behaviour fitting of a prince in exile, the sort of things Kíli always took to heart. “Do you think…?”

His brother trailed off pensively, and Fíli cast him a sidelong glance, watching the easy smile Kíli had been wearing for most of the morning slip away a little more with each step they took towards their rooms. Distractions were only distractions for as long as they lasted, it seemed, and this particular diversion was about to end on a rather dramatic note.

They had just turned down the corridor that hosted their chambers when a door banged open with enough force to rattle the stone walls, Dís storming out in a flurry of skirts. She didn't see either of them, stalking away in the opposite direction, and the two brothers shared a knowing glance as they hastened their pace. They arrived in the doorway just as Thorin finished untangling himself from the garments that had been hurled over his head, and he met their anxious stares with a rueful gaze of his own.

“It appears,” he said blandly. “That your mother is displeased with me.”

“What did you say?” Fíli said wonderingly, limping his way into the room as Kíli shut the door behind them both. “I haven't seen her this angry since…”

“It's Erebor, isn't it?” Kíli interjected quietly, and Thorin sighed.

“That is a part of it,” he admitted, setting the clothes their mother had used as weapons aside and taking a seat on the bed. “But I doubt Dís would have reacted so strongly had recent events not brought painful memories to the forefront once more. Your mother has good reason to be upset. If what Balin and Dwalin told me is true, then what is happening in Erebor now may well be tied to Nali's death.”

“Father?” Dropping gratefully into the chair Kíli had fetched for him, Fíli let his crutches slide to the floor and gave his full attention over to his uncle. “We were told he died in an ambush.”

“He did.” Thorin wiped a hand across his face, looking pained. “But it was neither orcs nor goblins who loosed the arrow that claimed him. Our own kin were responsible.”

Fíli stared, and the back of his chair creaked as Kíli 's grip on the wood became a vice.

“He was _murdered_?”

“Aye, murdered, that is a fitting description. To this day I do not know whether that arrow was meant for me, or whether Nali was being punished for his own actions. None of those we captured in the aftermath were willing to speak on the matter, and the dead tell no tales."

“What do you mean, Uncle?” Unsettled, Fíli scowled. “Why would any of Durin's Folk want to harm either of you? You're of Durin's direct line, and I never heard anyone in Ered Luin speak ill of father.”

“Of course not.” Thorin shook his head. “Nali was a beloved and capable leader long before Erebor's people sought refuge in the Blue Mountains. He established the settlement you were raised in, drawing the scattered gatherings into a more defensible homestead, and uniting the displaced under a single roof. He had more of a right to rule in Ered Luin than I did, though he would always argue that point with me. He argued many points with me, actually, perhaps that is why he and your mother found common ground so easily.”

“That doesn't explain why anyone would want to end his life,” Fíli objected.

“No, it does not.” Thorin agreed. “But you are forgetting, Fíli, that Durin's Folk account for but one of the Seven Clans. The most diverse and scattered, it is true, but still only one, and not a people your father was born to. For the survivors of Erebor, Ered Luin was safety, security, and the chance to build new lives. For those who followed Nali to the Blue Mountains, it was something more; a homecoming.”

“How could that be?” He had not spent hours upon hours trapped in a study with Balin for nothing. “The refugees of Belegost were welcome in Moria, and found their homes elsewhere after it fell. Unless…”

“Unless,” Thorin picked up where he had left off. “They were not of Belegost, but of Nogrod.”

_Nogrod_. There was no scion of any royal line among the dwarves who did not know the significance of that name. The clan of oathbreakers, whose crimes were not at all lessened by the fact they had been perpetrated against elves. Dwarves were a race of honour, but those who dwelt in Nogrod had forgotten theirs, and refused to repent even when their neighbours and kinsmen had voiced clear disapproval through their refusal to provide aid. In the eyes of Durin's Folk, Nogrod's people were fallen before the city itself was lost, its lords stricken from the names of the Seven, their place later claimed by the Lord of the Iron Hills. The clan itself had vanished from the histories, swallowed by the depths of time, only to remerge here and now, in a way Fíli could never have foreseen. The actions of one's forefathers had the ability to reflect on oneself no matter the generations that fell in between, and he was suddenly keenly aware of what blood may flow in his veins.

“How?” he managed at last, Kíli a silent, quivering presence at his back. “They vanished.”

“And it was our failing that we never sought to discover their fate,” Thorin spoke wearily. “The dwarves of Nogrod were guilty of treachery, but not all their number were complicit in the act, and not all deserved the consequences that followed. They were without a home, adrift in a time when the presence of evil in the world was no minor thing, and we offered them no protection. The enemy is not without skills. Torture, suffering, and pain, these things they know intimately, but orcs and goblins have never been great craftsmen, plundering instead from the works of others, or forcing those others to do their work for them. We turned our back on our kinsmen and named them outcasts for their crimes, the enemy dragged them to the depths and made them pay their debt tenfold and tenfold again.”

Thorin paused, to draw breath and to gather himself, and Fíli forced himself into still patience.

“It is a difficult tale, you understand. Your father shared it with me only after years of friendship, and even then it was only because I refused to dismiss the matter without explanation. You cannot imagine the shock it was,” he added softly, tilting his head so he was looking up at the both of them. “To learn that your father was born into slavery.”

It hit Fíli like a physical blow, and his back collided with that of the chair as his breath fled him in a rush.

“You mean he was taken captive in battle?” Confused, Kíli sought clarification.

“No,” Thorin corrected him gently. “Our failure was worse than that. Our people had been taken, alive, and forced to do the enemy's bidding for years. We never tried to find them. We never even knew. Nali was born in captivity, and, were it not for a series of fortunate circumstances, he would still be there, along with the rest of his kinsmen. Or dead. Somehow, through all the years they spent serving a master not of their own choosing, they kept a flame of rebellion alive. A flicker of hope. A flicker that one day flared into a bonfire, and drove them to choose either death or freedom.”

Fíli nodded slowly, uttering the unspoken, “Father escaped.”

“And took as many with him as he could.” There was something close to pride in Thorin's voice as he said those words. The pride of a brother. “I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been. Many of those held captive had never known anything more, Nali among them. They knew of the outside world only through the stories passed down to them by their elders. They had never seen sunlight, or felt any breeze save the hot air of a furnace. Freedom must have seemed little more than a dream to them, yet it was a dream they clung to, and none more tenaciously than your father. I firmly believe he would have found a way to fight his captors even without prompting from an outside influence, but Fate saw fit to intervene.

“For whatever reason, the enemy dragged another poor soul to the depths, and that was all it took. A single voice from the outside world, confirming every hope they had never dared entertain, and your father was raising an army and storming his way out of imprisonment. He freed many, though sadly an equal number and more died, either through the battle for freedom or in the shock of the aftermath. It is no easy thing to survive in a world that is wholly different from all you have ever known, but they managed somehow, and those that survived made for Ered Luin, where they should have been able to find peace. However, for some the nightmare lingered too close, and vengeance seemed to them a more just course of action. Attacking the ones who had imprisoned them was impossible, for those who were not already dead were hidden away in strongholds they dared not assail, so they found others to whom they assigned guilt. Those who had left them to their fate in the first place; the descendants of Durin.”

“That's not fair!” Kíli objected. “You said yourself that no one knew what had happened to them.”

“Is ignorance ever a plausible excuse?” It was not a true question, and Fíli had no answer to offer regardless. “The Line of Durin turned their back once, and once was all that was needed. You do not need me to tell you how long our people can hold a grudge, and these individuals were no exception. They believed their actions reasonable, their cause just. They even approached your father, their liege lord, and demanded that he seek justice for past wrongs. Nali refused, betrayal in the eyes of those who had petitioned him, an act of treachery later compounded by the way in which he readily welcomed Erebor's displaced people. It was too much for some, and they took action of their own.”

Fíli swallowed. “So that's why they…?”

“Yes.” Short and clipped. “Your father was one of the bravest dwarves I have ever met, a true leader, and a hero to his people. He died because he forgave, because he chose to welcome Erebor's people with open arms. Dwalin and I, we made sure those responsible were brought to justice, whether by freeing them of their torment or ending those who found joy in the sorrow they sowed. Not all of them sought vengeance out of broken-minded need. Some were willing servants, with a wider plot than simply ending Durin's direct line, and influence that had spread like infection in a wound. There was no way to tell how far the corruption had gone, but we were as thorough as we could be at the time, and we thought we were done with the whole, foul business… until now. Balin and Dwalin bring ill news from Erebor.”

He fell silent again, brooding, a near visible mass of dark thoughts amassing above his head. Fíli truly did not want to ask, but he had never been taught to shy away from questions that may have difficult answers.

“What has happened, Uncle?” he pressed, and watched as Thorin's eyes flicked first to Kíli .

“I want you to understand there is no blame here,” he said firmly, in a tone that forbade argument. “What has happened has happened, and the only ones responsible are those who saw an opportunity and used it for their own foul means. You did what you believed to be right, and no one can fault you for that.”

“Has something happened to Dain?” Kíli asked immediately, and not without anxiety. Fíli was sure the story their uncle had just told was as fresh in his brother's mind as it was in his own.

“No, nothing has happened to Dain.” Thorin laid those fears to rest at once. “Not yet, in any case, and I would not like to be the dwarf who tries to do harm to the Lord of the Iron Hills. Dain was a fearsome warrior even as a youth, and his skills have not lessened with age.”

“But something _is_ wrong,” Fíli concluded. “And you believe it has something to do with those who killed father.”

“Erebor was a kingdom of the Line of Durin,” Thorin explained. “Only direct descendants of that bloodline have ever sat upon that throne, and only Durin's Folk have ever inhabited those halls. As a descendant of the eldest line, your brother's right to rule in Erebor was beyond question. Had it only been the matter of a single kingdom that would no doubt have been the end of the dispute. But Erebor was and always has been more than that, for it was the home of the Arkenstone, the jewel upon which the Seven swore oaths to Thror, and the seat of the king to which all clans were once beholden. That is the reason you encountered so much opposition, Kíli.

“The Seven have been without a king for decades, and without respect for the eldest Line of Durin for almost as long. That is their right, perhaps. No matter the reason, Thror fell. He failed his people, he very nearly led them to their doom. Who in their right mind would not question a leader of the same bloodline, for fear of the same occurring again? I do not approve of the way in which they aired those doubts, but I can understand their reasons. Dain, however, is a proven leader. He has ruled in the Iron Hills for many years, and he has the respect of his people and that of the other clans. With Kíli gone, his claim to the throne is far stronger than any other, and his experience should have silenced any remaining doubts.”

“It hasn't, though,” Kíli guessed quietly. “Has it?”

“Unfortunately not,” Thorin confirmed what they both already knew. “You told no one of your going, Kíli, and through some happenstance of fate no one saw you leave the Mountain that day. Accusations have been made against Dain. That he had a part to play in your disappearance. That he has been seized by the greed that was our ancestors' downfall. That he has followed in the footsteps of my own grievous error, and spilled blood in order to secure his kingdom. Words are only words, but once they have been spoken they spread like wildfire, sowing seeds of suspicion and doubt wherever they go. Dain cannot produce you as proof he has committed no misdeed, and, though he has loyal supporters, the Seven are not easily swayed. It may well be they decide it is not worth the risk.”

“You believe they will not recognise Dain as King?” Fíli surmised, then frowned as Thorin shook his head.

“I fear worse. Balin believes it may yet come to the point where the Seven decide to take matters into their own hands, and depose Dain entirely.”

Kíli sucked in a sharp breath of air between his teeth, asking disbelievingly, “Can they do that?”

“By rights the answer to that should be 'no',” Thorin answered him. “Dain rules in Erebor, therefore he is King. Save for the one technicality the Seven have never failed to exploit. Their oaths were sworn _on_ the Arkenstone, and they have only ever answered to he who holds that jewel in his possession. Dain gave it to you, and with it his bid for complete authority.”

“Would it really have made that much of a difference?” Fíli wondered aloud. “I know it is Erebor's greatest treasure, and a heirloom of our house, but it really is only a stone.”

“If what we suspect is true, and those behind this plot to unseat Dain are indeed the same as those who attacked us in Ered Luin, then, no, I do not believe it would have made a difference. Their goal seems to be to keep the clans scattered, at odds with one another, and I am almost certain they would have found a way regardless of the obstacles placed in their path. They have already proven they are capable of taking fatal measures.”

“Why, though?” Kíli said, bewildered. “What purpose does it serve, to keep the Seven Clans apart? Or, for that matter, to end the Line of Durin? All of the clans stand to benefit from Erebor's reclamation. Why would anyone want to stop that?”

“Because unity breeds strength,” Thorin did not hesitate in giving his response. “And, for all the misfortunes we have suffered in the past, we still hold the power to put fear in the heart of our enemy. We are still a _threat_.”

“To whom?” Fíli puzzled. “Azog and Bolg are both dead, their armies decimated and scattered. Who is left for us to fight?”

Only then did Thorin hesitate, with the look of one who did not wish to speak, yet knew his words must be uttered. “When Gandalf left us on the eaves of Mirkwood,” he began slowly. “He did so because a greater danger had presented itself to him. An evil of old returned to a world that was not prepared for its coming. I do not know exactly what occurred in Dol Guldur, but the tidings that were carried from that battlefield are only ill in nature. The Dark Lord Sauron has returned to Middle Earth.”

They were only words, so Fíli could not quite understand why his heart had set off running whilst his skin pricked with an unnatural cold. Kíli was suddenly leaning on the back of his chair, his grip white-knuckled, his face equally pale.

“He was defeated!” the archer protested. “In the Last Alliance, Sauron was _defeated_.”

“Nevertheless, he has returned,” Thorin assured them with grim certainty. “And we must prepare ourselves for the battle that is surely coming.”

How? Fíli wondered silently. It had taken an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves the last time, and even then they had barely come away victorious. How were they expected to fight the same enemy now, with the bonds between the three races in tatters, and strife rife amongst the dwarves themselves? They were weak. Vulnerable. They would never stand a chance.

“We have time,” his uncle was saying, with a degree of certainty that made it impossible to doubt his words. “We may be weak right now, but so is the enemy. Lord Elrond believes his defeat at the Lonely Mountain may well have been a heavy blow, especially with Dol Guldur lost to him as well. He has fled for now, no doubt to regain his strength, and so we must do the same. The only question that remains is how we shall go about achieving that end. Your mother wishes us to return to Erebor. To settle the disagreement there, once and for all.”

It wasn't hard to figure out what he was not saying. “You still disagree.”

“My actions there are a part of the reason this plot against Dain has found a foothold.” the exiled King shook his head. “How would I convince the Seven they are any safer trusting in me than in Dain?”

“You have the Arkenstone,” Kíli ventured.

“And we already determined that that may not be enough to sway the doubters,” Thorin reminded his younger nephew. “This strife in Erebor will not be solved by my presence or that of the Arkenstone. Dís may argue, but the fact remains the Mountain may well be better off without me there.”

“I want to go back.”

Startled, Fíli swung about to follow the path of his uncle's gaze to his brother's determined face. There was a stubborn spark in the archer's eyes that Fíli knew all too well, matched by the set of his chin and the way he squared his shoulders as he repeated his words with surety.

“I want to go back.”

“Kíli …” Thorin started, but got no further.

“I _am_ to blame, Uncle,” Kíli said, dismissing Thorin's earlier absolving words. “It was my decision to leave the Mountain without telling anyone. My decision to sneak away like a thief in the night with the Arkenstone in my possession. I left it all to Dain because I trusted he would be able to manage Erebor, but that wasn't fair to him. They were my problems, and I should have taken care of them before I left.”

Again, Thorin tried to interrupt, “That may be so, Kíli , but…”

“It _is_ so, Uncle.” His little brother was adamant, it seemed. "Maybe I was right to come after you and Fíli , maybe everyone else was wrong to give up all hope, but the fact remains that I had a duty to my people as well as to you, and I failed to uphold that duty. I could have… I _should_ have made certain things were well in the Mountain before I ran off into the blue, and now Dain is dealing with the consequences of my carelessness. I want to go back. I _have_ to go back. I need to make things right. If you and Fíli don't wish to return to Erebor I will understand. I'll go alone if I have to, or with ma, but, Uncle, you need to go back as well. We are of the Line of Durin, and we do not leave our battles unfought.”

It was instinct to reach up and grasp his brother's arm, a silent message that conveyed the pride he did not have words for, even as he spoke what few he could muster.

“I'll go with you, Ki,” he declared firmly. “Always.”

They turned as one to face Thorin, equal in their determination and conviction, and as their leader wavered like a sapling in a winter gale, Kíli spoke again.

“It is your battle, Thorin. _Our_ battle.” Boldly, then, with Fíli 's grip as a bolster, he extended a hand to the dwarf who had raised them. The uncle who had never failed to lend them his strength when their own faltered, so that now they stood firmly on their own two feet, ready to give back the gift they had been given. “We'll fight it together.”

Without hesitation, without a blink of doubt, Thorin reached out his own hand and clasped Kíli 's forearm in a warrior's embrace.

“Together, then,” he said warmly. “The Sons of Durin are coming home.”

 


	32. Memories of Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings all, and welcome to the very belated Act IV of The Heart of Erebor. This took much longer than I meant it to, largely due to the inconvenient existence of a thing called real life. To cut a long story short work has been nothing less than stressful lately, and I really needed to just take a step back and chill for a little while before I was ready to even look at this story. Seeing BOFA seems to have kicked the rusted fanfiction gears back into action, and we're coming up to the Christmas break as well, so, whilst I know better than to make any promises, I'm genuinely hoping to be able to put a lot more time into this fic. 
> 
> In the meanwhile, thank you to all those who have read and reviewed this tale, both recently and not so recently. I hope you enjoy this largely reflective beginning to the last league of the journey this story has been.
> 
> Happy reading,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 32**

 

**_ Memories of Madness _ **

 

Spring came to Rivendell in a dazzling array of delightful scents, a new chorus of birdsong, and a burst of natural beauty that even those who lingered within its borders as guests would have been hard pressed to find fault with. The gardens came alive anew, the woods were filled with the sound of a world freshly wakened, and on the green slopes of a realm that had never shied away from the necessity of battle the clang and crash of sword on sword sounded out louder than it all.

Kíli spun on his heel, wincing when the wet grass beneath his boots almost cost him his footing, but still managing to bring his blade up in time to catch that of the opponent who had sought to catch him unawares. Grinning at the look of chagrin on Eldalil's face, he skittered backwards a few steps, idly twirling his sword as he beckoned with his other hand. Responding to his overconfidence, the second of his adversaries tried to charge him from the side, and Eldalil burst out laughing as Ranlóm encountered the same patch of dampness as Kíli had a moment before and fell with an undignified squawk to land on his haunches.

“Bravo, my friend!” Seated on the sidelines, Kilarin gave a mock applause. “Felled by the morning’s dew. That is a new one, even for you.”

Scowling, muttering to himself, Ranlóm scrambled back to his feet, brushing stray stalks of grass off his breeches as Eldalil gave him a consoling clap on the shoulder.

“Don’t pay him any heed, lad,” he said quietly, so Kilarin could not hear. “He’s had his own fair share of encounters with the dirt, has our Kilarin. As for you,” he looked directly at Kíli, smiling broadly. “You are much improved, Master Dwarf.”

“It still feels wrong,” Kíli confessed, loosening and tightening his left handed grip on his sword hilt. “Fíli was always the two-handed master.”

“It’s only been a few months,” the older ranger assured him. “Give yourself time. None of us became masters in a day.”  

Kíli nodded, sheathing his blade and keeping to himself the thought that time was something he had both too much and too little of right now. He had known, of course, that the decision to return to Erebor was not one that could be acted upon immediately. Leaving aside all the necessary preparation for such an expedition, Fíli had needed further time to heal, and Kíli himself would not exactly have been fit for travel when Thorin’s agreement had first been attained. Their health had been but one of many concerns, and all those involved were of one accord that this venture must be planned even more carefully than the last. There would be no dragon at their journey's end this time, but the unknown was just as dangerous, and had to be accounted for accordingly.

Returning to Erebor now with the Arkenstone in hand was tantamount to directly challenging Dain’s already realised claim to the throne. Whilst even Thorin had reluctantly admitted Dain was unlikely to argue against such a challenge when he had indirectly been responsible for the deliverance of the Arkenstone into his cousin’s hands, both Dís and Balin had been insistent that if they were going to do this it should be done _properly_. There had been too much controversy over the matter of succession already. What they needed now was an irrefutable claim, backed by strong bloodlines, the heirloom upon which all oaths had been sworn, and supporters who would stand behind the one who wished to name himself King. Fortunately, such individuals were not going to be all that difficult to find. In fact they hardly needed finding at all, because those seeking them knew exactly where to find them.

To that end Balin, Dwalin, and Thorin had left Rivendell three months ago now, bound for the settlement in Ered Luin where Kíli and Fíli had spent the majority of their lives. They had taken Bilbo with them so that the hobbit could check on his own affairs in the Shire, and Gandalf as well, though that had been more the wizard’s choice than Thorin’s. Dís had elected to stay behind with Inga and her sons in Rivendell, though she had not been idle. Kíli did not know what task it was that claimed so much of her time, but he had seen very little of either of them since, dividing his own days between his continuing healing sessions with their host, helping Fíli with his archery, and accepting his brother’s aid in turn in training himself to wield a sword with his other hand. Which still left him with far too much free time on his hands, and no idea how to productively spend it.

It would have been easier had there been something definite to do. Had Thorin’s orders before he left consisted of more than just ‘rest, recover, heal’. He could not deny that those things were important, but they also contributed very little to finding a solution to a problem he was at least partially at fault for causing, and that did not sit well with him. He wanted to move, to do _something_ , and he counted every day spent within Rivendell’s borders when he should have been on the road to Erebor as another day spent failing to fulfil his duties.

Eldalil tapped him lightly on the top of his head with the flat of his blade, and Kíli started, favouring the elder ranger with a scowl.

“There is such a thing as overthinking one's troubles, my young friend,” the Dúnedain counselled sagely. “Do not become so focussed on what you cannot solve that you fail to see that which you can.”

“Good grief,” Kilarin muttered, not quite under his breath. “He's turning into a elf! Quick, Ranlóm, if we flee now we might still escape in sharing his fate.”

“No wonder Alatair chose to leave you here,” Eldalil retorted dryly, sheathing his blade with a sharp ‘click’. “He was probably hoping the elves would accidentally drop you off a cliff somewhere.”

“He left you behind as well,” the archer reminded him, the grin on his face pulling at the new scar adorning his right cheek, courtesy of a warg claw that had just barely missed his eye. “Perhaps he was hoping they might mistake you for a fossil, and save him the trouble of burying you.”

Eldalil tipped his head to one side, death in his eyes, and Kilarin was up and running before his elder had taken his first step in pursuit. Kíli watched them, bemused, as Ranlóm let out a long sigh.

“I hope Alatair sends for us soon,” he said with affected patience. “They really are abominable when they're bored.”

“Will you be returning to the Ettenmoors when he does?” Setting a path towards the practice courtyard where he knew he was most likely to find his brother, Kíli hefted the blade in his hand and cast his companion a sidelong glance.

“It depends on what Lord Halbaron decides.” Ranlóm shrugged, apparently untroubled by the uncertainty. “Our presence there was to assess the nature of the threat we were facing, but we are stretched thin enough as it is, and without a clearly visible danger it is probably just as likely we will be sent elsewhere. We go where we are needed, and there are plenty of perils to choose from.” The young ranger's expression darkened. “Eriador is not what it once was. Though, perhaps the same could be said of all lands.”

“Not all,” Kíli corrected him, glancing at the beautiful gardens and elaborate stonework that surrounded them. A sight seemingly lifted from a world not their own.

“No, not all,” Ranlóm agreed somewhat wistfully. “I will miss this, when it comes time to leave.”

“It is beautiful.” In a strange, foreign way that was at the same time both oddly soothing and yet jarringly unfamiliar. “But it’s not home.”

“For which there is never a fit substitute.” Ranlóm smiled his understanding before making his excuses. “Forgive me, Prince Kíli, but my company is promised to another this morning. I will see you at dinner, if not before.”

They parted at the edge of the courtyard, Ranlóm taking the path through the gardens, whilst Kíli picked his way down the steps that would deliver him safely onto the practice fields. He was surprised to find the grounds utterly deserted, for he had expected to find Fíli, at least, knowing his brother did not normally take a break from his training before noon, if not Estel and the twins as well. But there was no sign of any of them, or anyone else for that matter, the only evidence they had been there the bow and quiver lying, discarded, on one of the benches.

They may as well have left him an open invitation.

Taking only the second needed to make sure he was still alone, he crossed the distance between himself and the weapons, the way his fingers wrapped themselves about the smooth wood wholly instinctual. The bow settled in his hand like an old friend, with that same feeling of rightness that had first prompted him to learn the art, the innate sense that this was _his_ weapon. More than a method of hunting, more than a means of fighting, his archery had become as much a part of him as breathing, and he had not realized until now how much he missed it.

Hands trembling with suppressed excitement and fear, he slung the quiver over his back, letting the familiar weight settle comfortably against his shoulders as he strode out onto the range. Sliding a shaft from the bundle and setting it to the string he chose his target from those lined up at the end of the field, then drew.

Almost immediately he felt the strain in his shoulder, stiffening muscles shouting their rebuke as a flash of lightning burned its way down his arm, leaving a debilitating numbness in its wake. Biting back a curse he let the string bounce back into its resting position, shaking out his hand until feeling returned to his fingers. Drawing with his right hand was clearly not going to work. His shoulder wouldn’t take the weight, but if he used his left perhaps…

It felt just as foreign as holding a blade in his left hand had when he first started relearning his swordsmanship, but he pushed that feeling away, sucking in a long, slow breath as he drew with a slow care that was at odds with his usual speed. He felt the familiar pull of the draw, the creak as the string came taut and the wood bowed, and then the tension across his shoulders. That was all he had. Just a bare second of warning before his right hand shuddered, his left was too slow to release, and the shaft flew awry of its mark, bouncing harmlessly off the side of its target.

Not to be so easily dissuaded, he took out another arrow, only to find his fingers fumbling before he had even fully raised the bow, the numbness creeping down his arm from his shoulder adding a tremor to his once steady hand that sent the next projectile veering off in a shot so bad Fíli would have been hard pressed to match it, even at his worst.

Cold panic pooling in his stomach, he wrenched another arrow from the quiver, the fingers of his left hand struggling through the motion of setting shaft to string as his right arm rebelled against the demands made of it. He was fighting simply to raise it, the muscles in his shoulder locking as though he were trying to lift a boulder rather than a piece of carven wood, and when he let the arrow fly in sheer desperation it crossed only a short distance before thudding into the ground well short of its target.

Having abandoned all rational thought for the moment he reached for the fletching at his shoulder again, only to have a firm hand close about his own as a soothing voice sounded in his ear.

“Hey, _hey_.” A second hand landed on his back, square between his shoulder blades, warm, steadying, and familiar. “It's alright, Ki. It’s alright.”

It really wasn’t, and he forgot for a moment that he was meant to be a Prince of Erebor in his own right, allowing himself to turn and bury his face in the collar of his brother’s tunic to hide the tears unexpectedly welling in his eyes. He had known. Of course he had. Ana, Nárran, and Elrond had all been clear on the ramifications of his folly, making sure he knew what disappointment he would face before he discovered it for himself. Still, there had been a part of him – that young, naïve part, he supposed – that thought this might be something he could simply work around. That the weakness in his shoulder, the numbness and ache that took over the limb when he raised it and tried to hold it aloft for more than a few seconds, might just be a matter of time.

Disillusionment was cruel, and he could no longer ignore the truth.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he might regain enough strength to fire a few shots before his shoulder gave out, but he understood now, _really_ understood, that there would never again be those days of hours spent on the range. No longer the comfort of a string between his fingers and an arrow flying true when nothing else seemed to be going as he planned. He still could not bring himself to regret the sacrifice, or to resent those whose lives had been saved in the act, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Patient as always, Fíli waited in sympathetic silence until he had himself in hand again. Realising how much like a child throwing a temper tantrum he was behaving, Kíli pulled away, swiping at his eyes as he apologised. “I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be,” his elder chided him. “You're allowed to be upset, Ki. We’re all still finding our feet. Besides,” he nodded at the bow still hanging in Kíli’s lax grasp, “I know what it meant to you. I also know nothing else can ever compare, but perhaps its time you tried your hand at throwing knives again?”

Kíli pulled a face. “You know I was absolutely dreadful at that. I nearly impaled Uncle. _Twice_.”

“Fortunately, he’s not here right now,” Fíli told him cheerfully, plucking a knife seemingly out of thin air and twirling it idly between his fingers. “And I’m fairly certain I’ll be safe so long as I stand behind you. Come now, brother, it is my turn to laugh at you.”  

Doubtfully, Kíli allowed his brother to press the small dagger into his palm, then did a double-take when he recognised the elaborate scrollwork on the handle, his thumb easily finding the familiar crest etched into the pommel.

“But this is yours," he blurted. “How did you...?”

Searched by elves and captured by orcs, it seemed impossible that Fíli should have managed to hold onto the weapon through all the trials they had endured.

“The sheath was part of the sole of my boot." Fíli shrugged. "Well hidden. I didn't want to lose it.”

“Of course not.” Reverently, he closed his hand around the hilt. “Father made it.”

It had been a gift for a boy who had been far too young for weapons, though Nali had not seen age as the obstacle Dís and Thorin had, the latter two refusing to allow Fíli to handle the lovingly crafted blade until he reached the traditional age at which the art of battle was introduced to the heirs of Durin. Knowing what he did now, Kíli wondered how young their father had been when he first handled a weapon, and whether or not Fíli's habit of stowing sharp things in his clothes came from an inherited instinct.

He had no real memories of his father. He'd been too young to form even the vague recollections his brother possessed, so that what he knew of Nali Silvertongue came solely from the lips of others. He'd been kind, according to those who knew him. Ever cheerful in the face of a grim existence. Brave. A skilled fighter but not a warrior. A craftsman more than a blacksmith. The voice of reason in any argument, unnaturally skilled at convincing even the most stubborn of individuals to at least consider another point of view. His father had been respected and loved, both by those who had shared in the past none of them ever spoke of and those who were none the wiser.

Because a past so stained was not so readily disclosed. Because if Thorin had not needed to explain the danger they faced in their entirety he may never have told them the truth, preserving what Nali had built without the tarnishing shadow of what he had escaped. Because no one ever spoke of this, except someone had.

“He was _there_ ,” he whispered in dawning horror. “He was right there.”

“Who was?” Confused, Fíli pinned him with a searching glance. “Kíli?”

“At the Council.” Reaching out with his free hand he seized a hold of his brother's sleeve. “There was a dwarf. One of the ambassadors. ' _Madness afflicted both sides of his family_ '. That's what he said. I didn't realise at the time, but... He knew, Fíli, he knew about father. He must have.” Triumph running through his veins, he looked his brother square in the eye and said, “I know who we’re looking for.”

 

**_~_ ** **The Heart of Erebor** **_~_ **

 

_It surged through his veins, hotter than fire, casting a red haze across all thoughts but one. That one circled endlessly, fuelling the flames of his ire, and transforming the familiar, beloved face before him into the enemy it had become._

Betrayed. I am betrayed.

_Lips moved, but he heard no words. What words existed that could erase such a crime? Kin turning against kin. Favouring the thieves on their doorstep over the unbreakable ties of shared blood. No, not unbreakable, for this was treachery, and treachery could not go unpunished._

The punishment... is death. 

_His sword sang as he drew it forth. Deaf to the cries of dismay around him, blind to the terror in those dark brown eyes._

Thief. 

_He advanced slowly, predator upon prey, executioner to the condemned._

Liar. 

_There was no need to think the act through, his hand knew the motion instinctively, his blade followed, and bare arms raised in desperation were no defense against cold, hard steel._

Traitor.  

_The body landed upon stone with a dull 'thud', life already fled._

It is only what you deserve.

_Someone screamed, their voice muted, but he ignored them, eyes transfixed by the growing pool of blood as the haze before his eyes faded and truth and horror both seized him at once._

Kíli...

_'No!' He turned, shocked at the grief and pain in that young voice, only to meet blue eyes that shone, bright and bitter sharp. 'What have you done, Thorin? What have you done?'_

He betrayed me.

_He could not answer, his heart in his throat, but some unseen force pulled him around to face the truth. His youngest nephew sprawled, his chest gorged, eyes fixed unseeingly on the sky above, lips still parted in a plea that had gone unheard._

He...

_Crouched beside the nephew he had not lived long enough to ever meet, Frerin lifted his head, lips bared in a feral smile as his dead eyes settled on Thorin's face._

He betrayed...

_'A true King would not ask this of us.'_

_I_  betrayed  _him_.

Thorin woke with a gasp, his heart beating against his ribcage in a valiant attempt to escape its bounds whilst his hand flew to his chest with the equally nonsensical urge to keep it confined. His breath was being torn from his lungs in unsteady pants, an unshakable terror searing its way through every limb as cold sweat made his shirt cling to his back. Some distant, still rational part of his mind took a moment to be grateful that his solitary sleeping arrangements meant none of his many traveling companions had borne witness to his upset. His people had enough reasons to doubt him already, without adding further tinder to the fire.

Using the large boulder at his back to heave himself upright he leant a steadying hand against the cool stone, gathering his scattered thoughts in an attempt to banish the shadowy mire of tangled memories and fear the night had summoned. It was a practiced routine now, an exercise repeated night after night for days that had stretched into weeks and months, until he had at last resigned himself to the sad truth these dreams would not be so easily quieted. 

It was not the first time he had suffered such an affliction. He had often dreamed of how his mother might have died in Erebor, though none knew the truth of her passing. Had she been cast down a mineshaft by the wind of dragon's wings? Crushed, burned, or simply smothered within the great halls of her home? He had and would never know, but his mind had provided ample suggestions. He had not needed to imagine how Frerin might have passed. The evidence of the cruelty his brother had suffered had been manifest all over his desicrated body, and the nightmares that had followed had seen him standing, helpless, over and over again as Frerin was dragged away screaming his name. Nali's passing had been both sudden and unexpected, a death on the battlefield, and it had not haunted his sleep only because the ghost of his brother-by-wed was an ever-present spectre by day. But Kíli... Kíli wasn't dead, and still his mind revisited and amended that moment on the wall night after night, showing him his nephew, felled by his maddened hand, and demanding to know _why_. 

A trick of the mind, all of it, but no less unsettling for all that.

As his heart steadied and began to follow a beat other than panic he straightened, drawing in a deep breath and then releasing it in a sigh as he let his eyes drift down and across the camp splayed below his perch. Scattered fires burned merrily in the warm night, the odd echo of mingled voices and subdued laughter drifting on the wind despite the early hour. 

It was a hopeful sound, the cautious joy of a people who had known too much tragedy to immediately accept good fortune. These were the survivors of Erebor and Moria, the hardiest of Durin's Folk, a people whose love and loyalty had had to be rewon because their king had trampled upon those values one time too many. Thorin had toiled long and hard to prove he was not his grandfather, that his right to lead these exiles did not stem from his bloodlines alone, only to nearly throw it all away in a single moment. 

If he was being entirely honest, he wasn't at all sure how 'nearly' had not become 'entirely'.

The journey back to Ered Luin had been uneventful, for the most part. They had travelled swiftly but easily, stopping only to retrieve Gloin's 'long-term deposit' and to deliver Bilbo to his doorstep after Gandalf abandoned them at the border of the Shire. There, to his great chagrin, the hobbit had discovered his possessions being sold to all and sundry due to the fact he himself was presumed dead. Leaving their irate Burglar to put his own affairs in order, Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin had continued west, bound for the home they had departed from over a twelve-month before.

It had been both humbling and daunting to reenter the Homestead and see in the faces of those who greeted them with amazed joy the love, loyalty, and trust this hardened people placed in him. He had thought in that moment that the boys should have been with him, Kíli especially, to share in what was more their victory than his. Their injuries had forced them to remain in Rivendell, however, so it had been Thorin alone greeted by crowds who shouted his name as eagerly as they had whispered it a year ago when he took his leave of the Blue Mountains.

They had sprung from doubt, those whispers. Concerns over his decision to journey to Erebor, a fear he had gone astray, as Thror had, fixing his eyes on a prize that could not be won. His triumphant return had washed all such misgivings aside, and the irony had not escaped him that it was now, when his people could not have had more faith in him, that he was forced to admit they should have none.

And he  _had_ admitted it, rejecting Balin's quiet suggestion they need not tell all that had happened in Erebor. His old friend meant well, he knew, concerned that they could ill afford to drive a wedge between Durin's Folk and their rightful King with affairs in Erebor as they were, but that path had felt too much like cowardice to Thorin. Like deceit. Like denying he had ever fallen from grace, and could still again.

After all they had suffered through in the name of Thror's madness, his people deserved the truth, and so he had given it to them. He had summoned the Council of Ered Luin to session in the Great Hall and confessed all. His blindness, his greed, his willingness to risk war, and how perilously close he had strayed to the unforgivable. He had placed himself at their mercy with every expectation of harsh judgement, for who, in their right mind, would follow a wretch who threatened to spill the blood of his own sister-son over a stone? A King who had been ready to abandon his cousin and kinsmen for the sake of safeguarding treasure? 

He had no right to ask for their loyalty, no matter what Dís believed, and he had felt that most keenly as he beheld the unease and outright alarm on the faces of so many of his kin. They knew this path, they had walked it before, and so they knew as surely as he did how it was destined to end. Or so he had thought. The reality had proven to be a little more... complicated.

“Thorin?” Torn from his thoughts he started, swinging about to face the hobbit who had joined him on the small rise overlooking the campsite. Bilbo's face was pinched in a look of worry, pointed solely in his direction, and he instinctively followed his immediate urge to deflect it.

“I thought you were sleeping, Master Baggins.”

“Well, I was,” Bilbo confessed. “But it turns out Gimli snores just as loudly as Bombur, so then I got to thinking to pass the time, and I couldn't help but wonder whether or not I'd remembered to lock the front door and if there really were only sixteen spoons or did I miscount and let that _dreadful_ Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins make off with a few?”

He could not help the smile that twitched upon his lips, an amusement that had not pleased his halfling friend when he had first told the tale of woe, bustling about his living room as he disgruntledly proclaimed that it wasn't proper to be selling off a respectable hobbits belongings when said hobbit was far from deceased, and did Thorin _know_ how much of the recovered troll hoard it had taken to buy back his many misplaced belongings? It hadn't been reason for mirth, not really, and Thorin doubted he would have been anywhere near as amicable as Bilbo was had he been placed in the hobbit's predicament, but it was still the closest he had come to laughing since departing from the Valley of Imladris, and he had been grateful for the moment of levity. For a distraction, no matter how brief, from the weight laid upon his shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Surprised again, though he knew he should not be, Thorin met Bilbo’s earnest gaze. “You’ve been very… quiet, lately.” He chose a softer word for ‘brooding’ than Dís would have in his place. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Do you not think you’ve done more than enough already?” It was meant kindly, but it was also  _meant_. Bilbo had done far more than Thorin could ever have fairly asked of him, even after he had been freed from all such obligations. Thorin had cursed his name, and Bilbo had still tried to help.

“Well…” Considering, Bilbo tilted his head to one side. “I made a promise, if you remember. To help you take back your home. As I see it, I haven’t yet seen that promise through.”

“Dain is hardly a dragon to be driven out of halls that are not his.” Yet even as he said it he had his doubts. Dain had ruled well in the Iron Hills, but the same could be said of Thorin’s reign in Ered Luin. It was Erebor that concerned him; the gold sickness of Thror, the dragon sickness left in Smaugs’s wake, and whatever was left of the madness that had claimed Nali’s life. Faced with such foes, he would not have blamed his cousin for succumbing to that which he himself had not been able to resist. He could only hope that Dain was stronger than he. That perhaps the curse of Erebor’s wealth had faded with the bloodshed on the mountain’s doorstep. That the Seventh Kingdom of Durin’s Folk was not destined to forever be their ruin. That returning to it now would not cost him his hard won sanity, or something infinitely more precious.

“Maybe not,” Bilbo conceded, oblivious to his inner musings. “But a promise is a promise regardless. Besides, I’d like to see the rest of the Company again. I never got a chance to say a proper goodbye.” The Shireling paused a moment, adding thoughtfully, "Do you think they are safe?"

There was genuine concern behind those words, for good reason, Thorin knew. It had been over a month since Balin last received word via raven from the mountain, and without Nori's regular reports on the growing tension in the mountain they had no way of knowing how the remaining members of the Company fared. There were any number of reasons why the missives may have stopped, and yet he could not help but think the worst. News of his fate had been kept secret, even from the rest of the Company, but the very fact Nori had been utilising the King's ravens for anything other than the King's business could easily have drawn the wrong sort of attention.

“They have lived through worse dangers,” he said at last, a reminder to himself as much as it was to Bilbo.

“True,” the hobbit agreed, brightening. “After all, what's a little conspiracy compared to a dragon?”

“Honestly, Master Baggins?” he answered in all seriousness. “I would much prefer the dragon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Travel Time Notes:
> 
> I have allowed a fairly generous allotment of time for Thorin and Co. to get from Rivendell to Ered Luin, get everything ready, and then travel back with an extensive caravan. It's probably more than necessary, but I wanted to play more on the safe side of realistic. Besides, think of all the things that can go horribly wrong at Erebor in three months plus travel to the mountain? XD


	33. The King's Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Have I ever mentioned how much I love Christmas Break? Cause if I haven't I should have. Not too sure as to the quality of this chapter, I normally have to go back a couple of days later to fix all the really obvious typos me and my sister both managed to miss, but hopefully everything else is alright and I haven't blatantly contradicted myself anywhere.
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 33**

 

**_ The King's Council _ **

 

It was not yet dawn when Thorin and Bilbo drew their mounts to a halt in Rivendell’s main courtyard, the sun still nothing more than a pale streak in the Eastern sky, half-hidden behind the clouds banking upon the horizon, threatening the lands below with a good dousing. The hour made no difference to the inhabitants of the Valley. If anything, they seemed rather intent on displaying the advantages of their elvish blood, for the sounds of revelry and wakefulness had followed them from the border of Lord Elrond’s domain down into the heart of the ethereal realm.

Lindir, too, did not bat an eyelid at their decision to present themselves before sunup, welcoming them with the same, slightly distant politeness as always as he directed the slightly less nonchalant grooms to care for their mounts and offered to escort them to where Dís and her sons were currently residing. It was an offer Thorin declined, choosing not to pay heed to the fact he had spent enough time in the elven realm to need only the name of the room from Lindir to find it.

With Bilbo walking beside him, hands neatly tucked behind his back as he peered at his surroundings with interest undimmed by the fact this was his second viewing of Rivendell’s wonders, Thorin worked his way inwards, trying to stem the irrational surge of panic rising with every step he took. The room Lindir had directed them to was one of the round pavilions that overhung the river, so that it was the sound of water they heard first, followed by the rhythmical cadence of voices too familiar for there to be any doubt as to the identity of their owners.

The noise spurring him on, Thorin outpaced his smiling companion without even realising it, arriving at the entry of the room to see his family gathered together within. Kíli was perched on the round table set to one side, in animated conversation with his brother, who was himself seated on a long, low bench pressed against one, vine-covered wall. Dís had claimed the divan by the balcony, her back turned to the view as she bowed her head over some hidden task.

It was Kíli who noticed him first.

“Uncle, you're back!”

After months of imagining the world rid of that bright smile through his own doing, it was nothing less than a soothing balm to see his nephew come alight with characteristic enthusiasm the moment he set foot in the room. The fact it was his presence that had caused the joy on the lad's face didn't hurt either, smoothing out the jagged edges of half-remembered nightmares. But whilst Kíli smiled at him Fíli's brow furrowed in concern, and his sister had only to glance at him once to see the truth.

“Well," she said matter-of-factly. “You look terrible.”

“It is good to see you too, sister.”

Soaking the wave of reassurance birthed by the simple pleasure of seeing them all again, he crossed the distance to press his brow to her's in solemn greeting, only to have Dís rise and enfold him in a fierce embrace. She released him just as quickly, moving to welcome a startled Bilbo with the same fervour, allowing Thorin the time to study each of his nephew's in turn.

Their time of rest had made the world of difference, its effects only amplified by their time apart. Both had true colour in their faces again, no longer wearing the haggard, thin visage of those trapped in a long convalescence. There was an ease to their movements and stances, the rigidness brought on by a fear of renewed pain absent. Kíli's arm was out of his sling, and he was confident enough to lean both his elbows on his knees without appearing to suffer for it. Fíli's crutches were gone, replaced by a cane tucked unobtrusively on the bench behind him, his bad leg stretched out where his other was bent. They looked whole, hale and hearty, and he spent a moment longer than he should have simply drinking it all in.

“Thorin?” It was Fíli who addressed him first. “Is everything alright?”

“How did you fare in Ered Luin?” Dís added, turning the question away from any enquiries into his welfare she knew he would try to evade regardless. “Come, sit down. Tell us what happened. Kíli, get your feet off that, boy. You know how to sit at a table!”

Sheepishly, and without the slightest sign of remorse, Kíli hopped down from his perch to take a proper seat on the bench that had been acting as his footrest, laying his arms across the table that had similarly played the role of his chair. Fíli remained where he was, leaving Dís, Thorin, and Bilbo to take the remaining seats around the table, all carefully angled to include Fíli in the circle.

As though they had simply been waiting for their guests to be seated, several of Elrond’s household entered the pavilion bearing trays laden with what Thorin hesitated to call a ‘light’ breakfast. Two lowered their burdens onto the table and left without another word, but the third lingered for a parting shot, the sparkling mirth in his eyes directed at Bilbo.

“Lindir informed the cook there was a hobbit beneath our roof once again,” he said. “He has sent what he thinks is sufficient stock to weather such an invasion, but do not hesitate to call for more if it is needed.” Executing a swift bow, he then left before a spluttering Bilbo could protest.

“Well, that proves it, brother,” Fíli stated, accepting the plate Kíli passed to him with a wry grin. “I told you Bilbo was Lord Elrond’s favourite.”

“Maybe that is because Bilbo did not destroy any of his property,” Thorin observed mildly, not needing to look to see the pointed stare Dís had pinned on him, and absently filling a plate of his own in response. Fortunately, his words had the desired effect of making her sons the target of that gaze, so he was saved the need of preparing himself a feast fit for an army.

“That wasn’t us,” Kíli protested indignantly. “That was Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.”

“And which of you stepped forward to stop them?” he inquired calmly, omitting the fact he had not spoken a single word of rebuke either.

This didn’t seem to occur to the youngsters, who exchanged a nervous glance, before Thorin’s heir eloquently said, “Er…”

“‘Er’ indeed.” Dís snorted, shaking her head as she released them both from her disapproving gaze. “Not fit to be allowed out in decent company, either of you.”

“You should have seen what they did to my bathroom,” Bilbo intoned darkly, leading Thorin’s sister to turn to him with an incredulous glance.

“In my defence. ” Raising a pacifying hand, he tried to stop the inevitable. “I did not arrive until well after the damage was done.”

“He got lost,” Fíli offered cheerfully.

“Twice,” Kíli added, his tone one of innocent helpfulness. “In the _Shire_.”

“Well, that settles it then.” Despairing, Dís shook her head. “None of you are going anywhere without adult supervision ever again. Which I suppose means I am stuck with the three of you for the foreseeable future. Though perhaps Master Baggins would be kind enough to sign a contract with the title ‘Child Minder’ on it?”

“Unfortunately my current contract has yet to expire,” Bilbo answered her, smiling. “But I will be sure to consider it when it does.”

“Excellent.” Dís nodded, as though the matter was settled, and then turned to Thorin again. “Now then, what of Ered Luin? Did the Council agree? Or did you frighten them all to death and send them running for the hills with your own account of your actions?”

“I told them the truth,” he replied simply, shrugging.

“Your version of it? Durin help us all…”

“ _Dís_.”

“My apologies.” Contritely, she beckoned with one hand. “It is not a laughing matter, I know. Go on, then, Thorin. How fare we on the playing field now? Tell me where we stand.”

Taking a deep breath he braced himself, and then did just that.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

_The Great Hall of Ered Luin was a bare and barren place, little more than a stone cavern hewn into the right shape to serve its intended purpose. Thorin had seen it brimming to overflowing, filled with torches and noise and laughter in times of celebration, but today it was set to play another role, and so its cavernous interior stood empty save for the large, wooden table that lay always in one corner. There were seven seats set around it, one of which had stood empty for over seventy years, for none had ever had the heart to step into the void Nali had left when he passed. There were still notches in the table from the knife his brother-by-wed had constantly driven into its surface, and Thorin let his fingers run over the damaged wood, drawing strength from the memories._

_This was the same place where Nali had divulged the truth of his history to Thorin, a history that many would have seen as a reason to swiftly put an end to the proposed union between Dís and her beloved. His sister was of Durin’s eldest line, a princess, in exile or no, and Nali… Nali was not simply common born, as those who had objected to the match had so freely pointed out, he came from tainted bloodlines. Any nobility he might have once laid claim to had been scrubbed out by a treachery older than any dwarf that walked Middle Earth and a past that marked him as lower than the lowest born of Erebor’s citizens. He had risked all to confide the truth in one who had the power to destroy everything he had built from the ashes his life had been at his birth, and Thorin had recognized the courage it took to do so._

_He could only hope he possessed the same sort of strength._

_He flinched as the great doors clanged open, the noises of the celebrations still taking place outside drifting in and drowning out the voices of those who had been allowed through, until the doors closed again and silence resumed. He did not turn to watch them approach, waiting instead until they came to take their places around the table, one by one._

_Tyrth sat first. Never one to dawdle when a task could be done at once, the grizzled miner pulled out his seat and dropped into it with a brief and courteous nod in Thorin’s direction. The black bearded dwarf had lived in Ered Luin longer than any of the others. Had been born there. Had lost two brothers in the same raid that cost Bifur his family and his senses, and had once deeply insulted Dain by insinuating the skilled craftsmen he had sent to aid in transforming the ruins of Ered Luin into a livable, workable home wouldn’t know the haft of a hammer from the head if you walloped them with it. In the court of Erebor he wouldn’t have made it a day without insulting every dwarf of noble birth, likely including the King. In Ered Luin, his forthright nature had proven to be instrumental in ensuring the three different peoples living there did not step on each other’s toes too often._

_Jorunn came next, breaking off a hushed conversation with Balin to claim his own seat at the table, habitually skimming a hand across the empty chair as he passed. Missing an eye and an ear along with three fingers off his right hand, Jorunn was one of those who had been fortunate enough to escape captivity. A survivor, above and beyond all else. It had been his presence in the dark depths that pushed Nali to lead an escape attempt, and his guidance after the fact that had allowed a people that had never known a life outside of brutal toil to interact with the world around them. If Nali’s were the hands that had laid the foundations of all that Ered Luin had become, Jorunn had been the one to pass him the stones, and had stood as a voice for a salvaged people who did not always remember they were allowed a voice ever since._

_Last, but by no means least, was Lofi Inksleeve, a venerable old dwarf whose beard trailed so close to his toes no one bothered to wonder why it was spotted with ink and chose instead to question how it was he managed not to step on the thing. Once upon a time he had been responsible for scribing the edicts of Thorin’s grandfather, but that was before the dragon, before the flight from Erebor, and before Thror’s deeds had become such that to keep a record of them was nothing less than torture for those who remembered the ruler he had once been. It was Lofi, he knew, who would be most affected by his own mistakes, and Lofi who would be the first to condemn him._

_Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he raised his hand to stop Balin and Dwalin from taking their own places around the table._

_“No,” he said simply, in answer to their enquiring looks. “Your decision is already made.” For better or for ill, he could not say. “Allow them the freedom to make their own.”_

_“Very well.” Reluctantly, Balin nodded. “We shall go see how the preparations for the exodus are going, then, shall we? Come, Dwalin.”_

_When the warmaster still hesitated, Thorin tipped his chin curtly in the direction of the door, and with obvious reluctance the warrior allowed his elder brother to drag him away. Thorin waited until they were both gone, then moved to stand behind the chair at the head at the table. He did not sit, not yet, choosing instead to meet the gazes of his Council one by one._

_“Judging by the expression on your face, I’m guessing whatever you’re about to tell us isn’t going to be particularly good news,” Tyrth spoke the moment Thorin’s eyes alighted on him. “It’s not the dragon, is it? Because if you tell me Smaug’s still alive I might just go throw myself down the first mineshaft I can find. I’ve had enough whiplash to last myself all year, thank you.”_

_At Thorin’s look of confusion, Lofi offered a mild explanation, “There have been some conflicting reports of who is and isn’t dead of late, you yourself being a prime example. Tyrth is merely being thorough.”_

_“Smaug is dead,” he confirmed what they all already knew. “And Erebor reclaimed, but I fear the dragon was far from the greatest danger housed within its halls.”_

_“We have had some tidings of the battle.” Jorunn nodded. “Though the Lady Dís departed in such haste that she did not impart much of what she knew.”_

_“He is not speaking of the battle,” Lofi uttered quietly, capturing Thorin’s gaze and holding it, the knowledge already forming in his eyes, so that now he only sought certainty. “Are you, Thorin?”_

_“No.” His mouth was suddenly dry, his hands closed tightly about the back of the chair, knuckles turning white. “I am not.”_

_Lofi nodded, his expression unreadable, and settled his weight back in his chair. “Start from the beginning,” he advised. “Tell us everything.”_

_‘Everything’ would inevitably make for a long telling, but Thorin nonetheless obliged him, retracing his steps from Ered Luin to the Shire, through Rivendell and their adventures beneath the Misty Mountains. Their encounter with Beorn, the near-ending of their quest in Mirkwood, their escape to Laketown in barrels, and the final league of their journey from Esgaroth to the Hidden Door. He faltered in recounting what had come after, the guilt he still felt for his actions all but choking him. Fixing his eyes on the table-top, he forced himself to continue, marching on through his slow descent into madness, the desperate act to which he had driven his own nephew, and the ‘justice’ he had thought to serve when he discovered what had been done._

_Unable to stop now, he kept going, recounting what he had seen of the battle, that desperate last charge. Azog’s death, Bolg’s vengeance, and all the horror that had followed. The rescue that had come, unlooked for and undeserved, and the Arkenstone that had found its way back into his possession. He finished with what Balin had told him of Erebor, what it was he now hoped to achieve, but could not even attempt without them._

_The silence that followed was deep and profound, and was broken by the searing screech of wood on stone as Lofi pushed his seat away from the table, rose, and walked away. Stricken, though it was truly nothing more than what he had expected, Thorin watched him go, and returned his gaze to the table only when Tyrth started cursing under his breath. Jorunn was more subtle, and restrained himself to a single exclamation._

_“Durin's beard.” He shook his head helplessly, leaning both arms on the table to pin Thorin with the same shrewd glance that had once been reserved for Nali at his most mockingly effusive. “You don't ever do things by halves, do you?”_

_He didn’t know quite how to answer that question, and was saved the need when Tуrth added his own view of the matter._

_“Trust a Son of Durin to arrange his own bloody execution,” the grizzled miner grunted. “Sit down, Thorin, we aren't about to hang you just yet.”_

_He obeyed without thought, joining the two councillors at the table._

_“What is the risk?” That came from Jorunn, who had dwelt in Erebor long enough to witness the gold sickness as it first took root, but whose capture had spared him its final, bitter fruit in Moria. “That you will succumb again? That_ any _of us will succumb?”_

_“I do not know.” And that was the most frightening thing, wasn’t it? The possibility that he could succumb again. He had believed himself stronger than that when he first entered Erebor and he had been proven wrong. How was he to know if his second homecoming would be any different? How was he to judge the strength of others? “I am not sure one can ever know.”_

_“So we could all be trading a safe but humble home here in the Blue Mountains for a festering pit of madness.” Tyrth, as ever, did not mince his words. “All for the sake of being a little richer?”_

_“Erebor is not just wealth,” Jorunn corrected him. “It is safety, security. How many attacks have the Guard warded off in recent years? Ered Luin might be a comfortable enough home, but it is no stronghold.”_

_“We’ve managed well enough so far.” Tyrth crossed his arms._

_“Have we?” Jorunn was doubtful. “It has been getting worse.”_

_Tyrth snorted, but did not voice his thoughts, eyes flicking instead to Lofi, who approached the table with the same stiff dignity as he had left it._

_“I will be honest with you, Sire,’ he spoke as soon as he was seated, ignoring Thorin’s start at the formal title he had never worn. “As you have been with us. None of us here expected you to succeed. Most of my generation had resigned themselves to the truth that our home was lost, and would remain lost, at least for our lifetime. Those who still dared to hope were weighed down by the realization of how little you could truly hope to achieve without the aid that was denied you. We had no armies to offer, nothing that suggested you might succeed, and yet you would not be deterred. Some would have called that madness, and perhaps it was, of sorts, but not the sort for which you condemn your King. Not_ Thror’s _madness.’_

_He frowned, lips parted to argue that Thror’s madness was exactly what had possessed him, only to have Lofi raise a hand to silence him._

_“Wait,” he said softly. “Hear me out. The difference does not lie in your outward actions, but in the motivations that drove them. Thror led us to our doom for no cause but his own folly. His own greed, even. He cared little enough for the fate of his people in the end, and we suffered for it. But, Sire, I would challenge you to find a single dwarf in this settlement who could not say that you have done the very opposite. Not just from the moment Thror fell, but before that, when you spent your days doing everything in your power to ensure Erebor’s people_ _survived.”_

_Thorin opened his mouth again to say such actions had been little more than the duty only he and his siblings had remembered was theirs to fulfil, but Lofi was not yet done._

_“When you set your mind upon reclaiming the Mountain, we feared for you. Feared such a task was impossible. That you would die in attempting it. But that is all we feared, for we knew what drove you back East, and it was not treasure. We trusted you.”_

_“And I betrayed that trust,” he lowered his head, feeling the familiar wash of guilt and shame._

_“If you had,” Lofi remarked blandly. “You would not be standing before us now. Not just because it is likely death would have found you ere you could return to Ered Luin, but because you would never have seen a need to account for your actions. Not to us. Not to your kin. Not to anyone. Did Thror beg forgiveness for the decisions he made that would have condemned us all had others not intervened? Did he feel an ounce of regret when his grandson perished for his madness? Did he once acknowledge the burden he had cast upon your shoulders, when it was his to carry? We never followed you for your infallibility, Thorin. Personally, I rather think that is the least of your admirable qualities.”_

_“You would still follow me?” Wonderingly, disbelieving, he stared at each of them in turn. “Even after…?”_

_He could not adequately put his thoughts into words, his tongue betraying him, and so he let them hang instead, unspoken._

_“We would still follow you,” Jorunn echoed him softly. “Because you do not ask us to do so blindly, and after the years you have spent toiling to keep Durin's Folk safe it would be nothing but remiss of us to not return the favour.”_

_“You owe me nothing,” Thorin insisted, determined not to claim their loyalty through some misplaced concept of a debt to be paid._

_“That's a matter of opinion, isn't it?”  Lofi smiled, all stiffness gone, completely at his ease. “Best resign yourself to it, lad. We aren't quite ready to give up on our King yet.”_

_A part of him was overwhelmed by the loyalty of the dwarves before him. The other part couldn't help but wonder if they had listened to a single word he said. Did they not understand the severity of his betrayal? How far he had been willing to go? The danger they would all be in if he faltered again?_

_Desperate for a voice of reason, he turned to Tyrth, whose doubt had been well founded. The miner delayed any answer, glancing around the table at his fellows in silent conversation, before returning his attention to Thorin._

_“You created this Council to advise the King," he said simply. “To give power back into the hands of the people, you said. If I said I could not trust you after this. If I declared it folly to return to Erebor, and counselled against it, would you listen, even if I was only one voice against many?”_

_“I have a duty to return to the Mountain,” Thorin answered slowly, choosing his words with care. “To fulfil my promise of restoring my people to their home. I must go, but I will not force you to follow me. You have a right to your doubt, I will not blame you if you have lost faith, nor will I censure those who would rather not tempt fate when to do so means the risk of madness. The choice is yours. It will always be yours.”_

_“And will you grant that same choice to the others who dwell here?” Tyrth pressed. “Will you address the masses and tell them also what you have told us? Will you grant them the truth?”_

_“Yes.” He did not hesitate, for, though he had known the support of the Council was the first step, he did not intend to drag any of his people into danger blindly, even if the existence of this particular danger still seemed in doubt._

_Tyrth pursed his lips, nodding. “Then I am satisfied.”_

_“Truly?” He blinked, at a loss._

_“You are not the first Son of Durin to lose himself to the gold sickness.” Jorunn waved a hand, not in dismissal, but acknowledgement. “But you are the first to have come back from it. Do not think that what came after does not matter. It is not the mistakes you make, but rather the way in which you remedy them that shows your true mettle. I have yet to see a reason to abandon my faith in my King.”_

_“It's your own fault, lad,' Lofi said, when Thorin found himself stricken into silence once more. “If you didn't want our loyalty, you shouldn't have spent so much time proving you were worthy of it.”_

_Seated at his right hand, Nali’s ghost smiled softly as the echo of a knife thudding into hard wood sounded in his ears._

_  
_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have to say that the Council scene in this was quite a challenge to write, if only because it relied on relationships between characters who don't appear all that much in this story. They are instead a part of the background tale I know but have never fully written out for anyone else to see. Therefore, the reactions of these characters are based on events and shared experiences you don't see 'on screen'. Hopefully, that doesn't detract too much from the story, and this still comes off as believable and not the folly of a writer who is running on far too little sleep! :-)


	34. Doubts and Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, whose idea was it to have the second plotline in this story be a conspiracy? Oh, wait, yeah. That was me. Challenging myself. Terrible idea, really. XD. This chapter took quite a lot of poking and editing and tricking myself into believing it actually made sense. It was meant to have more scenes in it, too, but the word count was getting up there and I needed to split it somewhere, so you get another kind of lighthearted character interaction. It's slow, I know, but we're edging towards a return home and all the dastardly goodness that come with that. 
> 
> Also, I have seen BOTFA twice now. And I have thoughts. If anyone is interested, they can read them on my tumblr page (same username is here.) Otherwise, happy reading, and I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 34**

 

**_ Doubts and Discoveries _ **

 

 

The storm that had been building since before the dawn broke over the lands in a cascade of water that pounded on stone and earth alike. Thick and heavy, it drowned out the rush of the river, blotted the clear horizon, and drove those who had dared venture outside back into drier lodgings. Kíli watched the downpour from beneath the safety of the pavilion's domed ceiling, feeling a pang of sympathy for the caravan of dwarves he knew were currently getting soaked somewhere out in the Wilds, and gratitude that he was not currently among their numbers. Dry and comfortable, he rested his chin in his cupped hands and let the last words of Thorin’s account wash over him in gentle waves of relief.

Winning back the loyalty of the Council was but the first step in a long line of strides to be taken, but it was a step that could so easily have become a stumble. Kíli remembered quite vividly his own experience in staring down the unfriendly faces of governance and, whilst he knew Thorin carried with him a wealth of experience and authority Kíli himself did not possess, he had not been able to ignore the similarities between then and now. Nor stop himself from fretting over what would happen if the Council turned their back on their king.

Dís, of course, had insisted, had been _adamant_ Thorin’s people would stand behind him despite his transgressions, but Kíli knew she had not been without her own doubts that the outcome they wished for might not be that which they received. If Inga had any thought on the matter, she kept them to her habitually mute self, whilst Fíli had adopted his usual, quietly resigned air, hoping for the best and not worrying over whether or not it would come with a serenity Kíli envied. Much and all as he appreciated the comfort his brother’s steadiness brought him, there were times when Fíli’s determined patience drove him mad.

But there was no need for patience any longer. Thorin had returned, had succeeded in his mission, and they could now put their minds towards planning for the second leg of their journey. To the task of returning to what was now their home. It was a prospect Kíli looked forward to with equal parts excitement and trepidation, the expectation of finally, properly setting foot in Erebor with his family beside him tempered by the memories of the past and fears for the future.

“I knew you were agonizing over nothing.” His mother’s voice broke through his reverie, trying not to sound triumphant, and failing miserably as she addressed her brother’s turned back with a bright smile. “You chose your Council well. They are not the sort to throw years of loyalty away on a whim.”

“It would hardly have been on a whim, Dís.” Thorin shook his head at her, swinging around to face the small gathering. “You know as well as I that they had as many reasons not to follow me as they had to do the opposite.”

“Well, clearly something spoke in your favour, though I’m hard pressed to imagine what.” Thorin pinned her with a look, and Dís relented slightly. “They’ve made their decision, Thorin, and you must trust in their judgement, even if you no longer trust in yourself. They are there to protect the people, it is true, but they are also there to protect you and, unlike many of their station, _your_ Council did not accept their posts out of a desire to further their own power. They are loyal and true friends. You should listen to them.”

“I do listen to them. And to you, whether you believe that or not.”

“Occasionally,” Dís retorted dryly. “When it suits you.”

Thorin simply inclined his head, well used to his sister’s moods by now, and Fíli took the opportunity to ask after the rest of the settlement.

“What about the people themselves?” he asked. “How many stayed behind?”

“Less than I expected, more than we had hoped,” Thorin answered succinctly. “I left Jorunn behind to act as their ward until a proper decision can be made as to the fate of the Homestead. I did not think it right to abandon those who preferred the home they now had over another, and there is no harm in having more than one refuge, particularly not as things stand now.”

“And how _do_ things stand now?” Dís asked warily. “What news of Erebor, Thorin? Has Nori had any luck in finding those responsible for blackening Dain’s name?”

“I do not know,” Thorin admitted gravely, revealing a piece of the burden clearly laid across his shoulders. “We have had no word from the Mountain since arriving in Ered Luin, and his last missive was far from reassuring. The Seven are refusing to legitimize Dain’s claim until proof of Kíli’s fate and the whereabouts of the Arkenstone can be provided. Worse still, there was some rumour of a falling out between Erebor and Dale, though Nori did not have any specifics. The only good news he had to share was that Dain’s Council appears to be loyal. They have stood firmly by their lord throughout.”

“Actually.” Hesitant to counter his uncle’s words, particularly with further bad news, Kíli nonetheless could not hold his silence. “I’m not entirely sure that is true. One of Dain’s Council knew the truth about father. I don’t recall his name, but…”

“It was Valin,” Bilbo provided helpfully. Thorin jerked at the name as Dís went rigid, the two siblings exchanging a look of pure alarm.

“He was at the Council in Ered Luin, wasn’t he?” Fíli guessed, leaning forward as the tension in the room grew. “That’s how the enemy knew about our quest.”

“Valin was one of those most violently opposed to the idea.” Thorin started pacing, striding from one end of the table to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. “But it is worse than that. He has Dain’s ear. He has had it for _years_ , ever since Dain inherited his father’s seat. If he is a traitor…”

“You don’t know that,” Dís cautioned him at once, looking strangely shaken. “Any one of the Seven Clans may have been careless in their confidences.”

“And Nali?” Thorin tilted his head. “You and I both know how guarded a secret he kept his past. He would not have shared it with either of us if his conscience had allowed it, why would he confess it to one of Dain’s advisors?”

“It is still not _proof_ , Thorin. A good number of the dwarves living in Ered Luin know the truth. They are a part of it, but that does not mean they are working against us. Perhaps Valin was one of them, and simply chose to go another way after he was freed.”

“A way that led him directly into Dain’s court?” Thorin shook his head. “How many of those who escaped could have played the part of an advisor so convincingly, Dís? Jorunn trained Nali to act as a leader for ten years, and there were still things he did not understand when we met. I have spoken with Valin on many occasions. He knows his part too well. He is not of Nali’s followers, but he may well be one of those who agreed to help the few who sought vengeance on the Line of Durin.”

“To what purpose?” Dís remained unconvinced. “Even if he held a grudge against you for what Thror did in Moria, what Valin is doing now is undermining his own liege lord. Dain has only ever acted in the best interests of his people. There is no reason for Valin to betray him.”

“Unless he was never truly loyal to begin with,” Thorin intoned, and Dís paled. “Did you never wonder, sister, how it was that Nali won freedom for his kinsmen? How a people half-starved and weakened by years of relentless toil managed to _fight_ their way out of one of the most filth-infested holes in Middle Earth? Luck can only carry a person so far, and none of them should have survived that day.”

“What are you saying, Uncle?” Fíli sounded as uneasy as Kíli felt. “That the orcs _let_ them escape?”

“What better way to destroy your enemy than from within?” Thorin’s voice was low and soft, but the words crashed through the air, hurled by the weight behind them. “I did not realize it before. Or rather, I did not know the foe we faced, and so I judged the actions wrought against us by the enemy I knew we faced. Azog and Bolg would not have been capable of it. They were both cunning, but no orc has the patience for a scheme of such elaborateness. But they answered to another Master. A Master Durin’s Folk has defied again and again. A Master with the power to twist hearts and minds to do his bidding. A Master we all thought dead and gone, who set his heart upon Erebor and sent a legion to claim it. We assumed it was their treatment at the hands of their captors that drove so many of those Nali saved to violence, but what if it was more?”

His question was met with a ringing silence, for none of them had an answer. This was… It was _bigger_ than anything Kíli had ever faced before. Growing up in Ered Luin he had been taught that orcs and their ilk were the enemies of Durin’s Folk, that there was no love lost between his kin and the elves, that there were enmities between the clans that had originated so long ago most people didn’t even know what had caused them. But to look for danger amongst his own kinsmen? To realise the knife driven into his back may come from a hand he knew? To hear that the oldest enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth might be working to destroy them?

It was a chilling thought, and he shivered, startling when a warm hand landed on his arm. Fíli offered him a taut smile when he turned, eyes flicking back to Dís as their mother regained her voice.

“Thorin, if you’re right…” She hesitated, looking more discomfited than Kíli had ever seen her. “There will be no telling how deep this goes.”

“I would like to think the majority of our kinsmen can be trusted,” Thorin replied, sounding weary. “But you are right. We cannot know. We cannot even begin to _guess_ until we know what has happened in Erebor.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Dís said, her voice suddenly sharp. Purposeful. “They still think you’re dead, Thorin. You and Fíli, and Kíli too. You can’t just walk in the front gates. You’re the only advantage we have.”

“I could,” Bilbo interceded again, reminding them of his presence. “Walk through the front gates, I mean. They’d never see me.”

Dís cast him a somewhat incredulous glance, but Thorin, who knew as well as Fíli and Kíli did that their burglar’s luck did not stem solely from himself, answered with a shake of his head.

“This is not a mere dragon we are facing, Master Baggins. I would not have you put yourself at risk for our sake yet again.”

“Besides,” Dís added helpfully. “There is no need for anyone else to go when I am already expected.”

Thorin’s head snapped up so quickly Kíli winced in sympathy even as he leaned back to retreat from the line of fire, wondering if it would be considered improper to dive beneath the table.

“Dís…”

“No, Thorin, listen,” Dís overrode him before he could utter another word. “Dain knows Balin sent word to Ered Luin, and I sent word back to inform them I would be making the journey with as many of our kinsmen as were willing as soon as I was able. I am expected. They will let me inside. I can speak with Dain, or find the other members of the Company, and carry word back to you of exactly what it is we are facing.”

“It’s not safe…”

“Oh, don’t you dare! You took twelve dwarves and a hobbit on a quest to reclaim a mountain from a _dragon_. You are not in a position to tell me what is and isn’t safe!”

“Dís…”

“It is _my_ home as well. I have just as much of a right to fight for it as you do.”

“ _Dís_ …”

“So if you think you can leave me here whilst you three go off and risk your lives in some harebrained scheme again then you…”

“Dís!” Stepping forward, Thorin seized his sister by the shoulders, stopping her mid-rant. He waited a beat to be sure she had been momentary silenced, then he spoke, voice level and calm. “I have no intention of ‘leaving you’ anywhere, not least because I know full well you would never _stay_ anywhere. You have already told me you will not sit this fight out, and I have already accepted your decision. All I meant to say was that it is not safe for you to do anything alone. Balin and Dwalin should go with you.”

“I…” Momentarily taken aback, it took her only a moment to regain her footing. “Well, why didn’t you _say_ so?”

Thorin stared at her a moment, his face frozen, lips parted in readiness for words that never came. Then he laughed, a sound that was deep, and rich, and helpless as he simply leaned forward and drew his sister into an embrace. Bemused, Kíli glanced at Fíli, who simply shrugged in a way that suggested he wasn’t any closer to understanding the mystery that was their mother and uncle than his brother was, and this was not something that deeply troubled him. Content for the moment to adopt that same philosophy, Kíli settled back in his seat and waited for normalcy to resume.

It did not take long, Dís stepping back to look her brother in the eye as she firmly said, “We’re going to be alright, Thorin. All of us. We’ve come too far not to be.”

“If we are careful, perhaps.” He turned to look at his nephews, and Kíli instinctively squared his shoulders under his uncle’s searching gaze. “And remember that there are more enemies lurking beneath Erebor than those who carry blades in the dark.” Even now it was an unpleasant thought, and one he quickly banished, focussing on Thorin’s next words. “To that end, I have a request to make of you both.”

“Anything, Uncle,” Fíli replied at once. “You know we are with you in this.”

“That is what I hope,” Thorin said, granting his heir a small smile. “Leaving Jorunn behind to watch over Ered Luin means that I am short a Councillor. Two, in truth, for Nali’s seat has sat empty for long enough. I had not thought to ever find another worthy of taking his place, and yet now I find myself with two who exceed all such expectations.”

Beside him, Fíli straightened suddenly, as though called to attention. Kíli hesitated to do the same, a plunging feeling of dread overtaking anything else he might be feeling.

“You were both with me in Erebor,” Thorin continued. “You know, better than anyone else who bore witness to my actions, what I let myself become. You saw me act unjustly, cruelly, and neither of you followed blindly in my footsteps. I am proud of you for that. Proud of the decisions you have both made, then and since, in the face of great hardships. You have shown yourselves to be worthy heirs of Durin, and I have no doubt that you will become great rulers in your own right one day. Until that day comes, however, I wonder if you might be willing to offer the wisdom of youth to a lesser King.”

Stepping closer he held out both his hands, revealing the finely crafted, silver pins resting in his palms, each skilfully adorned with the emblems of the royal council; the crown of Durin, and the seven stars that hung about it. Fíli sucked in a sharp breath at the sight, the awareness of the monumental responsibility accepting that badge of rank would bestow upon him visible in his eyes. Slowly, hand trembling ever so slightly, he reached out to close his fingers about the cool metal, pinning it to his tunic with a reverence befitting of the solemn moment.

Kíli, on the other hand, had not yet moved, and fought to get words out around his suddenly clenching throat. “Uncle, I'm not...”

“Ready?” Thorin's reply was gentle. “No one ever is. But I am not asking you to play the part of Balin, or Tyrth, or Lofi. All I am asking of you, Kíli, is for you to do exactly as you did before. To remember that which is most important when no one else does. To help build a home we can all take pride in, not for its gold, but for the simpler riches too often cast by the wayside. To be the true Heart of Erebor, for a cold stone, no matter how beautiful, is a poor replacement for the warmth of friends and family.”

“I…” Overwhelmed, Kíli floundered. “I don’t…”

“I know.” Leaning forward, Thorin slipped the pin through the collar of his tunic, smoothing out the fabric before letting one hand come to rest on Kíli’s shoulder and the other on Fíli’s. “That’s exactly why I need you both.”

“Actually,” Bilbo remarked solemnly from behind him. “What you really need is a plan.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

When Fíli had first set foot in Rivendell for the second time, he had had no possessions to his name but the clothes on his back, the clasp in his hair, and the knife sequestered away in his boot. Everything else had been lost, in Mirkwood, in Erebor, in every misfortune that had beset them since departing from Ered Luin. It was something of a surprise, then, to find himself with ample clothes to pack, a fresh collection of knives to pick and choose his favourites from, and a bow and quiver to replace the twin blades that were his customary choice of weapon. None of it was dwarven make, though the elves of Rivendell had done an admirable job of mimicking the craftsmanship, and Fíli found himself wondering at the generosity of their hosts. Three months beneath Lord Elrond’s roof, with food and company aplenty, a healer’s touch for their wounds, and all the comforts to be expected in a home away from home, and still further gifts were granted to them. It was humbling, and he made a mental note to thank their host properly before leaving. This would not be another Esgaroth, where promises were broken on all sides.  

Resolve made, he set about folding the thick cloak he had been admiring as his thoughts wandered, adding it to his pack and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Not that he thought Kíli would have noticed right now, preoccupied as he was with making a halfhearted effort to gather up his own belongings and pausing every two steps to play with the silver pin attached to his collar. It was distracting, and worrying, and there was only so long he could stand there watching his brother _fret_ before he’d had enough. It was a habit he intended to break one day, this tendency for brooding fits his sibling had, but for now he was forced to settle on merely interrupting Kíli’s mood.

“Alright.” Setting aside the knives he had started sorting he took a seat on his mattress, levelling Kíli with a steady glance that never failed to make the younger dwarf fidget. “What is it?”

“What is what?” Kíli, quite infuriatingly, kept his back turned, absentmindedly stuffing items in his bags with a lack of care that meant their mother was probably going to end up repacking the entire thing later. Or Fíli would, to save them both another lecture.

“Whatever it is that is bothering you,” he retorted crisply. “And if you say nothing, I swear…”

“I don’t _know_ what’s bothering me, alright?” Tossing his bag down on his bed, Kíli swung around to face him, frustration and worry and fear all plainly painted across his face. “I just… It doesn’t feel right.”

He took a moment to consider that, dredging up all their past conversations, calling on his vast experience with his brother’s tendency to linger over every little thing, and skimming through his own nightmares of all that had gone wrong. Warily, then, he ventured a suggestion.

“Is this about Thorin?” Kíli gave him a quizzical look, so he elaborated. “I know you said it was over and done with, and that you don’t blame him anymore, but he frightened you, Ki. Now we’re going back to Erebor and–”

“It’s not that,” Kíli said quickly, cutting him off, and Fíli didn’t bother to hide his relief. “He didn’t… I have the Arkenstone, still, and he gave his word, and I… It’s not that. It’s… You weren’t there before, Fíli. I wasn’t good at any of… of… _this_.”

Fíli blinked. Once, then again as he made sure that the words his brother had spoken were actually those he had heard. Then, slowly, in a voice that was too reasonable for the emotions roiling through him, he said, “Before? You mean when you didn’t know whether Thorin and I were alive or dead? When you thought you were going to inherit a position you’d never even considered as being yours before? When you were dealing with a Council who probably would have considered it a personal favour if you’d died on the battlefield? Is _that_ when you weren’ta perfect figure of authority?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Kíli, as expected, objected. “I didn’t… I should have… I…” He scowled, pinning a thoroughly unimpressed look on his elder sibling. “Don’t do that.”

“What? Talk sense? Someone has to, and ma is too busy fighting with Thorin right now.” That earned him a fleeting grin, which dissolved as quickly as he had known it would, so he kept talking. “It is a lot of responsibility, Ki, for both of us. More than either of us would have had in Ered Luin. Erebor is going to be completely different, even without all this other mess. So we’ll learn, and we’ll help each other, and we’ll help Uncle, and maybe, just maybe, we won’t drive ma insane while we’re at it. Alright?”

There was a moment’s hesitance that did not precede agreement, then Kíli took a seat on his own bed, rubbing his hands together nervously as he stared at the floor and said, “I suppose there’s also Nordinbad. I don’t know how I am going to face Lord Northri after what happened.”

“They wanted to help, Kíli. They knew the dangers, and they chose to come anyway. Thorin and ma are right, you can’t blame yourself for that.”

“They still died because of me.” Kíli’s hands stilled, fingers interlocking and clenching, missing the comfort of his bow, no doubt. “I led them there, whether they came willingly or not. I don’t ever want to be responsible for something like that again, but with this?” He waved a hand vaguely at his new adornment. “It’s not a choice I have, is it?”

“It was never a choice for either of us.” Kíli had never understood that as Fíli did, left to his freedom whilst his elder sibling was faced with the realities of his inheritance. Balin had made sure Fíli knew well before time the sort of difficult decisions he would eventually be expected to make as King, but Kíli had not had that preparation, and so had not even thought of the consequences until after the deed was done. “We’re of royal blood, it’s who and what we are.”

It was not a response that pleased his brother, but Kíli bit back whatever objections he might have made, shoulders slumping in resignation instead. “Do you think there’ll be bloodshed when we return to Erebor?”

“Maybe.” He hoped not. It would be a dark day indeed when Durin’s Folk turned on one another. A dark day that had come before, he reminded himself, fingers reaching to press against the reassuring weight of the knife sheathed in his belt. “Do you still want to go back?”

It had been Kíli, after all, who settled Thorin’s wavering mind. Who had been so determined a few months ago that returning to Erebor was the right thing to do. Fíli did not truly believe his brother would go back on the words he had spoken that day, no matter what doubts might plague him, so he was not at all surprised when Kíli nodded.

“Yes.” His voice was firm again. “Things can’t stay as they are now, and we might be the only ones who can stop whatever Valin is planning, but I wish…” He trailed off, offering Fíli a weak smile. “I really have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Packing,” Fíli told him matter-of-factly. “Supporting Uncle, and helping to win back our home. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that. We’ll just take things one step at a time, and if it gets overwhelming, well, there’s four of us. I figure we can manage. So, please, stop worrying, and fix that bag before ma lays eyes on it and makes us _both_ repack everything.”

 


	35. Farewell to Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am much too tired to be safely posting fanfiction chapters, so here's to hoping this is actually a legible, sense-making chapter and not a bunch of random gobbledly gook.
> 
> Also, a note to my readers that I have but one more day of freedom before its back to the real world of work and wages. As such, I will not have the time I have had recently to work on this fic. Chapters will still come, but I expect them to do so at a slower rate.
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 35  
**

**_ Farewell to Rivendell _ **

 

With a final tug, Kíli cinched the last strap on his pack tight, and determinedly resisted the urge to take it all out again and make sure the Arkenstone was still sitting where it ought to be sitting and that he hadn’t forgotten anything vitally important. He’d already done so twice, leading a frustrated Fíli to abandon him with the threatening declaration that if Kíli did not soon follow he would send Dís to sort his troubles for him. Heeding his brother’s words, he let the straps slide through his fingers this time, only to find that, when freed, they immediately found their way back to the brooch pinned to his collar.

Fíli was right, he knew. Right that he was worrying over things that had not even happened yet. Right that he was not alone in this. Right that Thorin needed them both. Right that Erebor would be new and strange and difficult for all of them. Right that the responsibilities Thorin had asked him to carry were nothing more than his birthright. Heir or not, he was still a scion of the royal line, bound by all that entailed, a servant to his people and his king.

Fíli was right, and Kíli hadn’t been _wrong_ , even if he had not been dutiful, but that did not make the memory of the Company’s slowly dwindling faith in him hurt any less. It didn’t make the stinging words that had been thrown at him any lighter a blow. He wanted to go back to the mountain. He wanted to make this right. He just didn’t know if he could.

Frustrated, unable to settle his agitated thoughts despite how easily Fíli had calmed them a short while before, he tore his hands away from the emblem to dash them through his hair instead, freezing when his fingers touched on the other symbol of his lineage he wore. Slowly, he loosened the clasp from his hair, lowering it into his line of sight as his fingers traced the fine etchings that adorned the silver bauble. An heirloom of the House of Thráin, once Thorin’s, gifted to him as proof he had been forgiven, accepted, loved. Thorin had trusted him to carry it even after he stole the Arkenstone, and now his uncle was entrusting him with a greater burden. He had thought it almost a cruelty at the time, and it was only now, as he called to mind the vivid memory of the day when Thorin had tucked that clasp into his hair and drawn him back into the family he had once thought lost to him forever, that it dawned on him the wealth of faith that had gone into the gesture.

It was like locking the last piece into a puzzle. Turning a key in the lock. Something rose, shifted, and settled in the back of his mind, and he closed his fingers about his clasp with fresh determination. He could bear disappointing the Company, his people, and every other dwarf lord in Middle Earth, but he would not fail Thorin. One step at a time, Fíli had said. He could manage that. He _would_ manage that, no matter how difficult facing his past mistakes might prove to be.

Resolve made, he hefted his pack and slung it across his good shoulder, marching out of the room with his head held high. Following the path he knew his brother would have taken he made his way outside, only to pause, staring in astonishment, at the sight that greeted him there.

The normally tranquil courtyard had been transformed from its usual, calm state into a flurry of frenzied activity. Mounts were being saddled, wagons packed, and everywhere Kíli looked someone seemed to be knee-deep in preparations of some sort. Directly across from him, near the top of the steps leading down into the lower gardens, he could see Elladan and Elrohir in the midst of a lively conversation. Closer, sheltering next to the sturdy bulk of one of the wains, was his own brother. Feeling out of place with just his single bag slung across his shoulder he picked his way down the steps into the throng, moving forward in wavering steps that kept him clear of the elven warriors hurrying about their business until he reached Fíli’s side. Adjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulder he leant back against the wagon’s wheel, watching the proceedings with an air of complete bewilderment.

“What on earth is going on?”

“We are to have an elvish escort, apparently.” Fíli seemed more amused than confused. “Elladan and Elrohir are traveling to Lothlorien to visit their grandmother, and their journey just happens to coincide with our impending crossing of the High Pass. If you ask me, I think they’re just bored, and Lord Elrond is perfectly content to get them out from underfoot.”  

“And the extra wagons?” Pulling himself up the railing of the cart, Kíli tapped on one of the covered bundles loaded inside.

“Food mostly, I think.” His brother’s expression sobered slightly. “Elrond was concerned we might not have sufficient provisions to last the journey _and_ any troubles we might encounter, on the road or when we arrive. It is a generous gift.”

“Yet you don't sound pleased.” Kíli studied his brother's discontented expression for a moment, then admitted defeat. “Why?”

Fíli tilted his head, offering him a long-suffering smile. “I am contemplating the best way to tell Uncle he needs to thank Lord Elrond for all his help.”

“Oh.” Kíli pulled a face. “Can't we do that?”

“We could. But it would mean more coming from Thorin, and Erebor would not suffer from an alliance with Rivendell. There was a friendship between our two realms in grandfather's time, and I do not think Lord Elrond would object to forging another.”

“But Thorin might.”

“So you see the reason for my dilemma.” Fíli grinned at him. “Any suggestions?”

“Get ma to do it,” Kíli fired back quickly, earning himself an unimpressed look from his brother.

“You are no help at all.” 

Laughing, Kíli let his gaze wander, settling at length on the ponies Bilbo and Thorin had brought with them. The humble creatures looked small and scruffy next to the grand elven mounts, but that thought soon slipped Kíli’s mind as he counted them, then turned, frowning, to his sibling. “Where are you riding?”

“On one of the wagons, I expect.” Fíli shrugged. “Ma won't let me ride, and to be honest I am not at all sure that I could. Once we join the others we'll be traveling slower. I should be able to walk some of the way at least.”

Kíli chose not to point out that the mountain paths they were taking would be difficult to navigate by wagon. That, though they were allowing a few extra days to take the easier route through the Pass, there would still be places where a walking climb was necessary. Where mounts would have to be led and carts pushed. Fíli already knew those things, was probably more aware of them than Kíli was, but was simply determined they would not become a hurdle. Determined he would not  _let_ them.

“We could always ask the stone giants for a lift again?” he suggested aloud, and Fíli snorted.

“No, thank you. Nearly becoming a Fíli shaped smudge on the side of the Misty Mountains once was more than enough for me. You are welcome to try it yourself, though.”

“At least you would have left an impression.”

Fíli lunged and, laughing, Kíli slipped beyond his reach. Then, after a second’s thought, out of his _cane’s_ reach as well. Fíli brandished it at him instead, like the old gaffer Bilbo had told them about who spent much of his life chasing children out of his yard. Fortunately, before Kíli could make that comparison out loud, his attention was drawn by a commotion at the other end of the courtyard. Hooves clattered across the stone surface as a small group of riders approached the assembly, milling in an orderly fashion on the outskirts . Too distant to make out any faces, Kíli nonetheless recognized them.

“It’s Alatair,” he informed his brother, whose view was partially blocked by the readied wagons. “He’s returned at last. I am going to speak with him.”

Not waiting on Fíli’s reply he began to weave his way back across the distance, reaching the ranger patrol just as their captain dismounted, and Eldalil’s voice sounded out in welcome.

“Alatair! It is a blessing to see you at last.” Drawing nearer just as Kíli did, the elder ranger’s smile dropped away, replaced by a look of consternation. “You do not look at all well, my friend.”

Eldalil was right, Kíli realized in alarm, as he finally pushed his way to the front and caught sight of the swaying man. Alatair was pale and gaunt, the strength and sureness with which he had carried himself at their last meeting replaced by a lack of steadiness and a certain haggard air.

Nevertheless, he waved away Eldalil’s concern, offering all three of his recovered men a smile. “I am fine.”

“He isn't.”

Belatedly, Kíli realized that Alatair was not the only member of his company to have dismounted. Another ranger he did not recognise, shorter than most of his compatriots and with eyes of pale green in the place of grey, stood a step behind the captain, strategically positioned to catch the man should he fall.

“Faeron,” Kilarin greeted the newcomer. “I am surprised Lord Halbaron could spare you.”

“He couldn't,” Alatair interjected immediately, with a glare at his warden. “But my brother is a ceaseless worrywart who at times forgets I am a Captain myself and have not needed a babysitter in some years.”

“Says the man who decided a virulent fever was not enough of an ailment, so tried to get himself decapitated as well.”

“ _Decapitated_?” Ranlóm exclaimed in alarm, paling himself.

“Faeron exaggerates,” Alatair assured him at once. “The blade barely touched me.”

With a look of disapproval fit to adorn the highborn features of Lord Elrond himself, Faeron skewered his brother with his eyes, and Alatair hastily seized upon the first available distraction.

“Master Kíli! It is good to see you again. How fares that brother of yours?”

“Right here,” Fíli spoke for himself, having made his way across the courtyard at a more sedate pace than Kíli. “Hale, hearty, and still in possession of my head.”

“So I see,” Alatair answered, a spark of mirth in his eyes. “Ready for the road as well, it would seem. We saw a caravan of your kinsmen headed East. Are you bound in the same direction?”

“So long as Uncle does not get lost again,” Kíli chipped in. “What about you?”

“Alas, I am merely here to rid Lord Elrond of three nuisances,” Alatair gestured at his men, who looked utterly untroubled by being addressed in such a way. “My company and I are at the tail-end of our patrol, bound for home, and so I thought it best to collect my missing comrades, lest their wits depart from them completely in boredom.”

“That would necessitate having wits in the first place,” Eldalil quipped. “Which, I can assure you, neither of these youngsters do.”

“As you are losing yours with every day that drags you nearer to senility, I will forgive you your words.” Kilarin retorted, before switching his eyes back to his leader. “Are we to leave at once, Captain, or will you stay for a decent meal?”

“I rather fear we do not have the time for such luxuries.” Genuinely regretful, Alatair shook his head. “Though I do have a message for Lady Gilraen.”

“In that case you have time for a bite to eat,” Kilarin decided, seizing the older man by the shoulder, whilst Ranlóm fell into step on his other side, ushering him away before he had a chance to make a word of protest. Eldalil, for his part, lingered, taking a step closer to Faeron and speaking in what was not quite low enough to be an undertone.

“Fever?”

“The worst I have ever seen. It has been like wildfire,” Faeron answered with the same quiet timbre. “Many of our best healers took ill trying to save the sick. Not all recovered.”

“What of Nárran and Ana?” Ignoring the fact he may well be stepping into a private conversation, Kíli asked after the two who had tended he and his kin so diligently. Nárran was the reason his brother still stood beside him, the thought of him departing to then die of a winter illness…

“Nárran was well when last we spoke,” Faeron, choosing to overlook the interruption, offered him an answer. “Ana as well, though she was nursing a wolf-bite, and none too happy to be doing so.”

“A wolf-bite?” Fíli queried dubiously. “I did not think the wild packs were bold enough to attack settlements?”

“They are not, usually,” Faeron allowed. “But much of their hunting ground was wiped clean by the presence of wargs in the Wilds last fall. They were hungry and desperate, and they were willing to risk our swords for a chance at our livestock.” Reflectively, he added, “It has been a hard winter for all who dwell in Eriador.”

“Those are not the words of a man who carries good news, I think.” Uncharacteristically sober, Elrohir stepped forward to make himself a part of the circle. “Though, with you, my friend, it is not always easy to tell the difference.”

“Alive and able.” Despite the grim news, Eldalil still mustered a weary smile. “Those are the two things by which our dear Faeron chooses to measure the day. As Alatair seems to be both, I find myself rather agreeing with him. He is fine, and you should stop fretting.”

Faeron met that accusation with a bland lift of one eyebrow, which Eldalil answered with a clap on the shoulder that was both rebuke and comfort, then followed after his three comrades. Left alone with the dwarves and Elrohir, Faeron chose to address them properly.

“So, you are the dwarves that ensured Alatair’s last endeavor ended with such excitement.”

“Kíli…” Beginning what was their usual greeting, Kíli then handed the reins over to his sibling.

“And Fíli…” his elder brother added, before they both bowed in practiced tandem.

“At your service.”

“Faeron, of the Dúnedain , at yours,” the man replied with a dip of his head. “I believe we have you to thank for the recent decline in the goblin population.”

“That wasn’t intentional,” Fíli said as Kíli nodded, remembering their time spent racing around the warren of the goblin caverns. The only thing _he_ had been focusing on at the time was getting back out again, and he was fairly certain he was not alone in that respect. “And really, Gandalf was the one who killed the Goblin King.”

“Perhaps. But if you think I am thanking a wizard for preventing trouble rather than causing it then you are not as clever as Alatair painted you to be. Besides, I am certain he did not tear a swathe through the hordes alone.”

“We may have had a hand in that,” Fíli admitted.

“Or three or four or thirteen pairs,” Kíli finished for him.

“Indeed.” Faeron’s lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile that never eventuated. “Well, whether you meant to or not, you have played a part in making the road East a safer one. Continue to achieve results such as that unintentionally, and I am certain Alatair will be glad to tell the tale of how he saved the heirs of Durin’s Eldest Line from death.” He turned, as though to leave it at that, but then caught himself on his heel and swung back to add a parting remark. “Though, I would count it as a personal favour if you ceased dragging Wargs with you everywhere you go.”

It took Kíli a moment too long to come up with a fit retort for that, and the man had already walked away to rejoin the rest of Alatair’s company before words found their way onto his tongue. Beside him, Fíli made an odd little noise, head tilted to the side.

“I had almost forgotten how lucky we are,” he murmured.

“Lucky?” Kíli questioned, only for Fíli to turn to him gravely.

“We had Ered Luin. We don’t get sick. I don’t remember ever going hungry. We were _lucky_ , Ki.”

“The same might be said for those who dwell here in Rivendell, or any of the settled places in the world,” Elrohir answered him. “But fortunes rise and fall, and the hour of the Dúnedain is yet to come.”

“You say that like you know something,” Kíli said, giving the elf a searching glance.

“Perhaps I do.” Elrohir’s smile was secretive and mysterious and infuriating all at once. “But I am not about to share it with you, Kíli Kinsaver, so point your scowls elsewhere.”

“Speaking of scowls,” Fíli interrupted. “There is Uncle.” He turned to Kíli, then, with a rueful look of one about to commit to an act they knew was foolish but meant to carry out regardless. “Time to poke the sleeping dragon.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The Healing Halls of Rivendell had a strange scent, one that was both sweet and aged, sorrowful almost, as if the rooms remembered the broken lives that had passed across their threshold, and those that had never left. It invoked a solemn serenity, a sense that to disturb the tranquillity of this place would be an act of sacrilege, so Thorin’s tread was soft and measured as he paced the pristine corridors, in no hurry to reach his destination for more reasons than one.

Beside him, Fíli kept pace, his gait surprisingly smooth despite the cane that tapped against the stone floor with every second step. Fíli, who had, to Thorin’s mingled amusement and consternation, wasted no time in wielding the authority of his new rank. He could not deny the merit in his nephew’s argument, however, nor argue against the need for action on his own part. He had… amends to make here.

Erebor’s loss had devastated his people. Those who had survived had fled with nothing to their names, some without even clothes upon their backs, for those had burnt away to ash. Dale could not have provided aid even had they wished to, Esgaroth had cut their bridges and hidden in their homes in the hope the lake would save them, and the elves… the elves had turned their backs without hesitation. Had not thrown even a paltry loaf of bread to their unfortunate allies, a betrayal Thorin had neither forgiven nor forgotten to this day.

But Lord Elrond of Rivendell was not King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and he did not deserve the vitriol Thorin had so readily directed his way. The half-elven lord had opened his house to Thorin and his kin, providing food, lodging, and safety without any expectation of repayment. Had saved them from the jaws of death twice now. Had tended to his injured nephews as diligently as any dwarf healer would have, and had, perhaps most admirably, never once responded to Thorin’s hostility with like words. Where Thranduil had turned his back, Elrond had been nothing less than munificent, and Thorin suspected the hardships of Erebor’s exiles would have been greatly eased had it been the Lord of Rivendell watching their plight from the clifftop that day.

At the time of their first meeting, he had used the fact that Thror had not spoken of the elvish lord as an insult. It had not been until much later that he realised the implications of Thror’s dismissal of so valuable an ally. His grandfather had never mentioned Elrond’s name, had never thought to ask for aid when his people had lingered on the brink of starvation and despair. Elrond would have provided it, of that Thorin was now certain, and, though some might have explained Thror’s decision not to seek succour as the result of Thranduil’s betrayal, the unfortunate truth was his grandfather had simply not had a thought to spare for his people’s welfare. He refused to make that same mistake. No matter the blow it would be to his pride, he would make his parting properly this time.

Reaching the doorway to their destination he slowed to a halt, giving himself a moment to examine the scene laid out before him. The room Lindir had directed them to was the heart of the Healing Halls, that in which the various implements and medicines by whose aid Elrond conducted his sanative work were prepared and stored. Thorin had lingered there before, had even watched the master healer at his work as he waited to see its benefits manifested in his nephews’ wellbeing, but it was not Elrond’s hands sifting through the various herbs and tinctures today. Rather, that task seemed to have been appointed to his human ward, who worked with the admirable diligence of determined youth, following the soft-spoken instructions of the Lord of Imladris with a sureness and deftness that suggested a long practiced routine.

Not for the first time Thorin found himself wondering at the circumstances that had brought a human child into a realm of the Eldar. The way in which the rangers had been received in Rivendell spoke of the good relations between the elves and the Men of the West, but the child named Estel was more than just an honoured guest beneath Lord Elrond’s roof. The boy dwelt here, and had done so for quite some time if the ease with which he carried himself around the Valley’s other inhabitants was any indication, safely protected by borders that admitted no evil.

Such protection was rarely offered without cause, he knew, and the fact Estel was the sole child sequestered within Imladris, away from his kinsmen and the homes his people had made for themselves in the Wilds, spoke of the value placed upon his life. The boy was important, draped in a shroud of fate and a burden of destiny he did not yet know was his to carry, left instead to the freedom of his childhood years. He had not yet been forced to bid farewell to innocence, a virtue whose remaining vestiges had been torn away from Thorin’s nephews, and had thus been the perfect balm for wearied spirits and scarred hearts.

It was difficult to dwell on the shadows of the past when enmeshed in the bright world of a child, a lesson Thorin had learnt through experience, and a gift that his nephews had been granted without either they or the one giving it knowing.

“Lord Elrond.” Fíli slipped past him to announce them both with a polite bow, a gesture that earned him an amused glance from the elven lord, who was no doubt calling to mind the numerous occasion on which his guests had not been so courteous.

“Fíli.” Setting aside the bottle held in his hands, Elrond continued, “I did not expect to see you willingly set foot in these rooms again. You left them with such haste the last time you were here.”

“I had other places to be,” Fíli excused himself, with a sheepish glance at his uncle. “I’m sorry. Are we interrupting?”

“Not at all.” Turning, Elrond laid a hand on his pupil’s shoulder. “Come, Estel. We shall continue this lesson at a later time. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hunt down your brothers for me and make sure they are not causing Lindir too much grief with their preparations.”

“Of course, Ada.”

With a curious glance Thorin’s way, Estel gathered up the books scattered amongst the various herbs laid across the table, then bowed politely and excused himself from the room. Left with his nephew and the Lord of Imladris, Thorin hesitated, searching for something politer to say than the sharp words swarming at the tip of his tongue. Fíli, after glancing his way hopefully, let out a silent sigh that was betrayed by the drop of his shoulders, and spoke to fill the silence.

“We have come to offer our thanks for all the assistance you have provided,” he began, voice one of humility, every word sincere, his eyes never leaving those of their host. “I know I speak for more than just myself when I say there is no way we can truly thank you for all you have done for us. My brother and I owe you our lives and more, a debt I hope it may one day be within my power to repay.”

“A healer does not count the lives he saves as currency loaned and later returned, Master Dwarf,” Elrond replied. “It was within my power to help you, to not do so would have been nothing less than shameful.”

“It is a pity.” Finally having found his voice, Thorin answered before Fíli could. “That not all your kin share such noble sentiments.”

Elrond gave him a shrewd look, taking his time before offering his reply. “Not all my kin have weathered the sorrows of the ages intact. Darkness leaves its mark on all beings in Middle Earth, and it is not a stain that is easily washed away.”

Despite the promise he had made his nephew on the way, Thorin bristled. “You would excuse Thranduil’s actions?”

“No.” Sombrely, the elf lord shook his head. “I regret them, just as I regret all the evils of this age, and those that passed before it. Just as I fear those that have yet to come. The darkness that plagues this world is one your people have endured with fortitude, but you would do well to remember, Thorin, son of Thráin, that not even the hardiest of beings can face every hardship alone.”

Ignoring the reproachful look that Fíli was giving him, Thorin retorted, “Why is it that elves can never offer their wisdom in simple words?”

“Why is it that dwarves can never accept the wisdom of others with grace?” Elrond countered, and Thorin beat down the absurd urge to smile.

“We have our own wisdom,” he said instead. “Wisdom that says a true friend, once found, is not to be forgotten. Fíli is right. You have our gratitude. Perhaps, one day, the ties that once existed between Erebor and Rivendell will be forged anew. Until then, I would have us part on good terms.”

“You have the goodwill of this realm, Thorin Oakenshield,” the Lord of Imladris replied. “But tread warily on the road home. There are powers at work that only mean you ill, and they have been thwarted enough times to make the danger all the worse. I would not see the King Beneath the Mountain felled before he ever had a chance to come into his own.”

 


	36. The Lost Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I seem to be writing nothing but flashback chapters lately. Ah well. It was fun, and I am just shamelessly using my lunchbreak to post Fanfiction. XD
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 36  
**

**_ The Lost Prince _ **

 

Perched on the end of the wagon, Fíli watched the world flow by, and tried not to envy too bitterly those who had ridden on ahead at a speed greater than the carthorse could manage. He had promised himself that he would not let his injury hamper his ability to contribute to this new undertaking, and that meant not dwelling on the things he could not manage as much as it did accomplishing those that he could. Kíli had sat alongside him to begin with, one hand grasping his pony’s reins as he dangled his legs over the side, but when the aptly named ‘Fidget’ had grown tired of that arrangement Fíli had sent his brother on to join the other foreriders, seizing a moment of privacy to examine his own thoughts and feelings, only to find himself somewhat surprised at the result.

He was _frightened_.

It wasn’t an obvious fear. The all pervading type that rippled through every limb and either set your heart racing or froze your whole body in terror. No, this was quieter, fainter, lurking just on the edge of perception, throwing him off balance just enough for him to realise something was wrong. It had begun as a slight sense of unease as the walls of the Valley of Imladris fell away behind them, and it had been growing ever since. He felt… vulnerable, exposed, acutely aware of the fact this was the first time in three months that he had set foot in untamed territory, and equally conscious of the misfortunes that had befallen him in the past.

Grateful for the assurance they provided, he deliberately reminded himself of the elvish escort that was to see them safely over the Pass. Of the large number of his kinsmen they were bound to join before the night fell. Of his uncle riding a short way off with his mother, of Inga’s silent presence alongside the wagon, and his brother’s cheerful laughter near the head of the column. He was safe and protected, no matter how defenceless he felt, he simply needed to convince himself of the fact. 

Which wasn’t easy when their burglar insisted on popping up out of nowhere and nearly startling him out of his skin.

“Sorry.” Somewhat sheepishly, Bilbo clambered the rest of the way up onto the wain. “You don’t mind, do you? Only, Dís gave me so many bags to carry there isn’t enough room on my pony for me!”

“Why didn’t she just put them on the wagons?” Fíli wondered aloud, shuffling over a little to allow the hobbit more room.

“Too important, she said.” Apparently untroubled, Bilbo shrugged. “I could have done with a procession like this in Hobbiton,” he added thoughtfully. “It would have made lugging my furniture from one end of the Shire to the other much easier.”

“Your furniture?” Confused, Fíli threw the hobbit a perplexed glance. “Were you moving?”

“Moving?” Bilbo snorted. “No. Apparently, I was _dead_.”

At Fíli’s inquiring noise, the halfing went on to explain how his unannounced absence had led to the belief he’d come to a bad end. How he’d arrived on his doorstep to find others just departing from it, most of them in possession of one or another of his belongings. How he’d spent the three weeks it had taken Thorin to return from Ered Luin hunting down stools and cabinets and spoons from every corner of the Shire. The constant flow of words was soothing, and he simply let them wash over him, not realising he had dozed off until his mother’s gentle touch on his cheek roused him again.

“There you are.” Smiling down at him, her golden hair haloed by the setting sun at her back, Dís helped him into a sitting position. “I was beginning to fear you meant to sleep the entire journey away.”

Scrubbing away the sleep in his eyes, Fíli let his eyes trace across his changed surroundings, taking the sight of his kinsmen setting up camp atop the hill they had reached during his hours of inattention. The wagon beneath him was parked neatly in one corner of the encampment, the carthorse hobbled and turned loose with the other ponies. At his back, the Misty Mountains loomed, larger and nearer than he last recalled, and he turned back to his mother in chagrin.

“Don’t look so put out,” she chided him. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and it will do you no harm to be well rested.”

“Even if you did miss the spectacular fit Tyrth threw when we showed up with a company of elves,” his brother chipped in, appearing at the wagon’s tail end with a broad grin on his face. “Dinner is ready, if you think you can reach it before Bilbo makes it all vanish.” 

Mindful of his stiffened leg, Fíli promptly threw both over the edge of the cart, dropping his weight down onto his sound limb and giving his other a few moments to adjust. Dís pointedly handed him his cane before climbing down herself, and the three of them strode across the hilltop together, bound for the welcoming glow of one of the many campfires.

Bilbo greeted them with three steaming bowls of stew, and Balin and Dwalin shuffled over to make room beside Thorin for his nephews to sit. Lowering himself to the ground more carefully than he might once have, Fíli eagerly accepted his share of the evening meal before letting his gaze wander around the gathering, reveling in the almost palpable sense of warmth and camaraderie. It reminded him of the beginnings of their quest. That night in Bilbo’s home where they had nearly driven the poor hobbit mad with their antics, brimming over with the excitement of what was yet to come and with no true idea what that would be.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Balin murmured, gazing into the fire with a distant expression on his face.

“A lifetime’s worth,” Thorin agreed quietly, whilst across from him Dís’ let out a sigh. It was a mournful sound, and her brother was not the only one to turn to her in enquiry, so that when she lifted her head it was to grace them all with a sad smile.

“I was thinking of Frerin,” she said, addressing Thorin. “And that last night before Moria.”

Fíli perked up at that, for mentions of the uncle he had never met were few and far between, and talk of what had happened at Moria was even rarer. Beside him, Kíli also stirred, and it was his younger brother who spoke.

“What happened?” he asked curiously. “At Moria, with Northri and the others. He said he owed you a debt, that you had saved him and his people.”

“That is a generous interpretation,” Thorin replied. “Northri truly owed me nothing. I gave him only what it was his right to ask.”

“And yet he was willing to assail an enemy stronghold to repay that nothing,” Fíli pointed out. “He risked his life to save me, Uncle. If I am going to meet him, I would like to know why.”

Thorin hesitated a moment, glancing at Dís, who gave a curt nod in response.

“Very well.” Letting out a slow breath, Thorin set aside his half-eaten dinner, linking his fingers together as he continued, “It started when the scouts returned from Moria and news spread of the formidable enemy that we faced…”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

_The camp was dark and quiet, swathed in the unnatural stillness Thorin had learnt to recognize as battle's predecessor. Voices rose occasionally, drifting across the night, but they lasted no longer than a few moments, none comfortable with breaking the silence. It was a silence of nerves, of anticipation, and increasingly growing dread. Word of the number of enemies they were thought to be facing on the morrow had traveled, and unease tripped at its heels. Thror meant to make his advance at first light in an effort to use the sunlight to his advantage, but most feared that would not be enough to break the ranks of opposition, even with the aid Nain of the Iron Hills had promised. Thorin numbered among them. He knew this feat was madness, yet Thror would not hear reason, and Thráin did not seem to have the will to contradict him._

_Thorin had tried, coming at the matter from every angle he could conceive of, but, whilst well intentioned, Frerin’s quarrel with their grandfather had done little more than deafen Thror’s ear to any attempt at reason. The King was now immovably set on his goal, and nothing anyone could say would dissuade him. Which left Thorin to lurk alone in the night, his mind dwelling on the consequences Thror refused to consider._

_The sound of soft footsteps drew his gaze, and he watched as Frerin approached, his brother's eyes on the rough footing. A crossbow was slung by a leather strap over his shoulder, bouncing on his hip with each step in time to the quiver on the opposite side, whilst twin blades – poorer replicas of those he had forged in Erebor – protruded over either shoulder. Frerin was ready for battle, clearly with no intention of seeking sleep this night._

 

_“Thorin,” he addressed his elder as soon as he drew near, blue eyes meeting Thorin's own with a steady, calm regard that was utterly at odds with the anger that had burned there a few hours before. Frerin’s ire had always been a brief and bright thing, hard to stoke, hot to burn, and swift to die. He had never seemed to suffer from the black moods that at times gripped Thorin for days, blessed instead with the same serenity Dís so often wore, a trait that eluded most members of Durin's line. It had helped them both endure their grievous losses, and kept them firm now in the face of danger, something he was not yet sure was a blessing or a curse._

_When Thror announced his intention to march on Moria, Thorin had wanted Dís to remain in Dunland with the rest of their people. Naturally, living up to every expectation of stubbornness her lineage lent her, she refused to hear of it, and when refused a part in the battle itself had adamantly taken a post in the healers’ tents on the borders of the war camp. Thorin had comforted himself with the knowledge she would be safe there, provided the battle was not lost, but he had no such reassurances where Frerin was concerned._

_In the wake of their latest falling out, Thror had placed his youngest grandson with the regiment of archers. The position meant he would be up and away from the first melee, at least, but Thorin knew that illusion of safety would not last long and, with his own place in the battle to be at his father’s right hand, he would not be at Frerin’s side should his brother have need of him. There was nothing he could do to avert that danger. In a way, it was wrong of him to even want to, when others would be sending their own family members to fight, but knowing that was not enough to wholly banish the wish._

_“You are thinking dark thoughts, brother,” Frerin observed, coming to a halt beside him. “The night is dark enough as it is.”_

_“Find me a lighter topic and I will follow it,” he replied grimly, in no mood to be drawn from his thoughts._

_“I’m afraid I do not have one,” his sibling confessed. “But I sought you out for a purpose other than sharing in your misery. There is something you must see.”_

_Curious, he lifted his head to meet Frerin's gaze directly, beholding the slight wariness in his younger brother's eyes._

_Alarmed, he rose. “What is it?”_

_“I would rather show you,” Frerin answered softly. “Come quietly. You will not wish others to mark our going.”_

 

_Far from eased by those words, Thorin nonetheless fell into step behind Frerin, tagging at his brother’s heels as the younger dwarf picked his way back across the camp. As they neared the outskirts he became aware of the silhouettes moving in the night’s deeper shadow, indistinct shapes that revealed themselves as he drew nearer to be a company of warriors, arrayed in full armor, and yet carrying heavy packs as if for travel. At their head stood one he knew well, Northri, son of Dorin, a distant cousin of his own kin, and one of very few among the royal guard to have escaped the dragon fire._

_“Northri,” he greeted the familiar face, then gestured with one hand towards the assembly. “What is this?”_

_“We are leaving, my prince,” Northri answered firmly, though his eyes betrayed the anxiety his voice did not. “But did not wish to skulk away as thieves in the night.”_

_Northri was but sixteen years his elder, not a fresh-faced youth, but still young to be facing such a battle, and Thorin could not find it within himself to be surprised by the fact this had happened, or that others had clearly made the same choice. His eyes swept over those gathered, and he read in their faces grim determination, along with a slight air of hostility pointed in his direction. He knew full well from whence that hostility had sprung, for the rumors of his grandfather’s madness had long since escaped beyond the bounds of his own house. Thror’s inability to see to his people’s needs in the wilds had earned him a growing resentment. Durin’s Folk were not known for their fickle loyalties, but Thorin had known his grandfather was treading the borders of what was reasonable to ask of his followers without needing to see the evidence now arrayed before him._

_“What do you expect, then?” he asked bluntly, aware of both Frerin’s quivering presence at his side and the friendship between himself and Northri. “My blessing?”_

_“I expect no such gift, my prince,” Northri replied, remaining strictly formal, as though they were still within Erebor’s great halls and Northri still wore the uniform of the royal guard. “I know this must seem like cowardice, even abandonment, and were this any other battle I would gladly stand by your side. But your grandfather... Thror is not himself, for if he were he would surely not ask such madness of us. We do not have the strength to assail Moria. Not alone. Not even with the dwarves of the Iron Hills. He asks us to go to certain death!”_

_A murmur of agreement rippled through the others gathered, and Thorin let his gaze travel across their grim-set faces once more. They were no cowards these warriors, he knew, having fought beside them all in the past, but nor were they blind followers, willing to cling to their king even in his madness. He did not resent them their choice, and a small part of him regretted that his honor and blood ties would not grant him the same reprieve. What he would not give to be able to send his brother and sister away from this lunacy, but neither of them would willingly abandon him, and he could not willingly abandon his grandfather._

_“It is no more cowardice to walk away from certain death without cause then it is bravery to walk towards it knowing it will yield nothing,” he said aloud. “You have my blessing, Northri, whether you seek it or no. It will be a comfort to know at least some of our people will survive this madness. You intend to take your families with you, I trust?”_

_“Yes.” Some of the tension drained from Northri then, though his face remained grim, and his words were heavy “They are to meet us north of here.” He sighed then, and added, “It seems the lot of our people to inevitably come to a bad end, but I will try to avoid that fate if I can. You have my deepest thanks, Thorin, and you as well, Frerin. There are few who would allow such an act and not call it treachery.”_

_“He who calls it such would be a fool,” Thorin answered. “Go now, my friend, and go swiftly. May the day dawn brighter for you than it shall for us.”_

_“Mahal's hammer protect you both," Northri murmured, giving a low bow, then hastening to the head of the already moving column. Thorin watched them go, standing in silence with Frerin, who was the one to break it._

_“I know it goes against what is expected of our people, but I could not ask them to stay.”_

_“It was the right thing to do,” Thorin agreed with a heavy heart. “If only to see to our people's survival. If the battle goes truly ill on the morrow the enemy will strike next at the camp in Dunland. There will be none left of Erebor's people.”_

_“We may emerge victorious,” Frerin countered. “There is no need to abandon all hope just yet.”_

_“If you truly believed that, you would not have lambasted grandfather so.” Thorin pointed out. “An act which, may I point out, did very little but provoke his wrath.”_

_“I refuse to stand idly by whilst he leads us to our doom,” Frerin retorted fiercely, a spark of his earlier fit of temper showing. “Someone had to say_ something _.”_

_Sighing, Thorin halted, forcing Frerin to do the same so that they stood facing one another. “Do you think I have not tried?”_

_“Of course not,” Frerin assured him at once. “I know you have, which is why I could not hold my silence. Again and again he leaves you to bear the duties that should be his own, and yet he refuses to give merit to your counsel. He is leading us to our death, brother.”_

_Thorin merely shook his head, and Frerin’s words grew more earnest._

_“Will you not speak with him again? There is still time to turn back, if you could just make him see…”_

_“I have tried, Frerin. But he is king. His will cannot be gainsaid.”_

_Frerin’s eyes shuttered as he turned away slightly, bitterness and fear infusing his next words. “A true King would not ask this of us.”_

_“I am sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, so rarely had Frerin ever required comfort from him. His brother much preferred to be the one offering support, poking and prodding and forcibly dragging Thorin away whenever he felt his elder sibling needed a moment of freedom._

_“We may yet prevail.” Gathering himself, Frerin cast the mantle of optimism back about his shoulders, the darkness that had crept across his face retreating as swiftly as it had come. “More unlikely things have happened. I suppose we should just be thankful he hasn't suggested taking on the dragon himself.”_

_Thorin shook his head again, unable to muster the same bitterness Frerin bore against their liege lord, a fathomless exhaustion in its place. Frerin sighed, no doubt having read as much in his silence as he would have with words. His brother had an uncanny knack for that, and a disconcerting way of guessing the thoughts of others. In time it would have made him a valuable advisor, once Thorin came into his own, but that did not look to be a future likely to ever come about. They had lost their home, and they were about to throw away their lives trying to regain another just as irretrievable._

_“Come.” He had meant to return to his solitude, but Frerin's hand on his arm would not allow that. “You shall not sit alone in the dark thinking such black thoughts. If this is to be our last night, then we shall spend it together, you and Dís and I.”_

_Thorin conceded without complaint, even if he knew this time would not mean the same thing to him as it did to them. He loved his family with the fierce protectiveness of any older brother, but he had never been able to bond with either of his siblings the way Frerin and Dís had simply clicked together like two missing pieces of the same puzzle. He was more solitary by nature, though not adverse to company, and he knew what had once been reserve had now dwindled away into stark, cold unapproachability, the softer edges of his demeanor chiseled away by too many betrayals and losses. He did not truly understand the quiet, almost invisible, inner strength that gave Dís and Frerin the power to endure each setback and harsh blow without hardening their hearts against further damage. Theirs was a courage that would ever go acknowledged, but was perhaps the most vital kind he knew._

_“I found him, sister,” Frerin called as he espied Dís, seated beside the fire crackling merrily before her tent. “Though I will not guarantee that you can keep him.”_

_Dis rose as they approached, her dark eyes seeking Thorin's own with a sobriety Frerin was often lacking. It was the way of his younger brother to fall back on black humor whenever a situation grew overly dire, but Dís was more one for steady council and words of unusual wisdom. She was but thirty-nine, this sister of his, but she rarely showed that youth in her words or demeanor._

_“You were missed at supper, brother,” she said, the lightest hint of disapproval in her voice._

_“I went to examine the battlefield,” he replied as he sat, Dís doing the same, whilst Frerin leaned against a nearby outcrop of rock with his arms folded across his chest._

_“And what did you see?” she asked, likely already knowing._

_“They know we are coming.” He shrugged. “They will be well prepared.”_

_Dís reached out to pat him lightly on the arm. "So are we, brother."_

_“We just lost a good portion of our fighting strength,” Frerin told her matter-of-factly, earning a startled glance from his sister._

_“Deserters?”_

_“Nay,” Thorin disagreed. “It was Northri, seeking to save something from the ashes.”_

_Dís have him an incredulous look. “You knew of his going and you did not prevent it? He has broken his oath to his king!”_

_“A king who is no longer of sound mind,” Thorin reminded her sharply. “And Northri’s oath was to protect the people of Erebor. Whether that be from a dragon, orcs, or his own king. He is doing nothing but his duty, and I will not deny him the chance to live a full life. Too many of Erebor's sons and daughters have died already.”_

_Dís absorbed his words slowly, brown eyes fixed on his face, before speaking again. “I remember a time when you would not have been so understanding.”_

_Thorin met her stare levelly. “I would like to think I have grown wiser since then. It is one thing to ask a person to walk knowingly to death for a cause, but when it is hopeless from the outlook... we will not retake Moria on the morrow, Dís. We_ cannot _.”_

_“But we will fight regardless,” Dís concluded. “As will many others.”_

_“Which makes us the fools and Northri the wiser dwarf, I suppose,” Frerin uttered._

_“Or the lesser,” Dís countered._

_Thorin shook his head, knowing this to be one of the few matters on which the pair would not agree. Dís was not wrong, and had it been another time and place Thorin would have savagely opposed Northri's flight, but there was a black weight settled over his heart, and it had bade him to act with a fierceness he could not ignore. Northri's departure was right, though he feared what it would yet cost them._

_“On the other hand, perhaps this will work in our favour,” Dis continued. “And grandfather will rethink his purpose with fewer followers to back it.”_

_“He will not.” Another thing of which he was certain. He had already spoken his dissent to the point Thror had all but cast him from his tent, if with a good deal less vehemence than his brother. Dissuasion was impossible._

_“We could stop this, you know,” Frerin said quietly._

_“No.”_

_His answer was absolute. No matter the cost, that was the one thing he could not allow. Loyalty was all that the majority of them had left now. Even Northri, who had forsaken this fight, had been loyal in his own way, and Thorin would not see Erebor's royalty torn apart by treachery. Mad or not, Thror was their king and grandfather, they could not gainsay him, or seek to redirect the loyalties of his people._

_Frerin's jaw clenched at the finality behind that one word, and ire sparked in his eyes, turning grey flecks to silver that swam in pale blue._

_“And why should we not?” he burst forth in anger. “He is our king, but that does not make him infallible! You have seen what his madness has brought upon us. What suffering he has done nothing to alleviate. We are asked and asked and asked to give, yet he grants nothing in return! Where is his loyalty to us? He has none, for his greed has overwhelmed every part if him that was ever good!”_

_“We will not fall prey to the follies of Men,” Thorin said sternly. “What goodness has ever been achieved amongst their kind by their continuous thieving of scepters? Thror is our king, and he will remain such until his death.”_

_“He does not_ deserve _our loyalty,” Frerin spoke furiously, and might have continued, had Dís not intervened._

 _“_ He _does not, perhaps,” she stated gently. “But Thorin does, Frerin. Let us not spend this night arguing.”_

_Frerin stared at her a moment, his expression unreadable, then whirled on his heel and vanished into the night. Thorin made to rise, but Dís stilled him._

_“Let him be,” she advised sagely. “He is only afraid, and needs time to come to terms with his fear.”_

_Thorin nodded, settling, then forced himself to ask, “Is that what you both think? That I should stop this with force, if that is what it takes?”_

_“Neither of us thinks that.” Dís gave him a look that said he should know better. “But Frerin prefers action, and it grates on him to stand idly by while grandfather falls further and further into shadow. He loved Thror dearly once, and he hates that he can find so little of him in the dwarf he is today.”_

_“And what of you?”_

_“I think you are in an impossible position, brother,” she answered softly. “And none but those who have stood in the same are fit to judge your actions. More has been asked of you than anyone had any right to demand, and you have never failed to deliver that which was needed. Those who choose to fight tomorrow do so as much for your sake as for Thror’s. You have won the hearts of our people in a way grandfather never could. Whatever comes with the dawn, you should remember that. Remember that you gave the people of Erebor hope when they had none, and when the battle is joined you will do the same again.”_

_“You and Frerin must be the only ones who do not believe this fight will end in disaster,” he told her, warmed by her faith, but assailed still by doubt that was not alleviated by the thought those who chose to stay did so for his sake. “Do you truly believe we can win?”_

 

_“Win? No.” Dís shook her head. “But I believe we can survive.” She turned, staring into the shadows into which Frerin had departed, and Thorin wondered if he imagined the mist of tears in her eyes as she whispered, “Some of us, at least.”_

 


	37. Lingering Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Short. This chapter is short, and bitsy, and a little bit awkward. Hopefully the copious amount of angst enclosed still reads just as well.
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 37  
**

**_ Lingering Shadows _ **

 

 

Silence fell as Thorin let his words trail away, his eyes downcast, face half-hidden by the fall of his hair. None of that could disguise the grief in his voice, or the way Moria and all that it had wrought still weighed upon him. Wanting to help but not knowing how, Kíli reached out with his hand, only to freeze when Thorin reacted to the movement, lifting his head and giving his youngest nephew a soft smile.

“You are much like him,” he said, in a tone that was both impossibly fond and utterly stricken. “Frerin would have sooner cast the Arkenstone down a bottomless pit than see me follow in Thror's footsteps, though _he_ would not have apologised for it.”

“How did he die?” Fíli, who had not been there for Dwalin's blunt account of their other uncle's passing, asked quietly.

Thorin drew in a breath as though to speak, but when his lips parted only an abortive sound escaped it.

“Not through any fault of Thorin's,” Dís said firmly, then, catching movement from Dwalin, she added, “Or yours, for that matter.”

“He was in my charge,” Dwalin answered, his voice heavy.

Dís merely snorted. “He was in no one’s charge but his own. Despite what you and my brother believed, Frerin neither needed nor wanted your protection. He just...”

“Deserved better,” Thorin murmured. “As did all who fell at Azanulbizar. I should have listened to him.”

“Grandfather was beyond reason,” Dis argued. “Had you tried to wrest power from his hands it would have turned to bloodshed between you and he. That would not have solved anything, Thorin.”

“It might have saved Frerin’s life.” Thorin was not so easily appeased.

“Or it might have got him executed for treason,” Diís retorted, and Kíli couldn’t help but flinch. Balin noticed, patting him gently on the knee, and Kíli pushed the memory away as a nightmare already confronted and overthrown. “For the last time, Thorin, you cannot deal in ‘might haves’ and ‘could have beens’. Doing so brings nothing but more grief. As if what truly happened was not enough.”

“What did happen?” Bilbo asked, looking both curious and as if he would rather not know. Clearly remembering the tale Balin had told near the beginning of their journey, he continued somewhat tentatively, “Was it Azog again?”  

“Would that it had been.” Thorin sighed. “Azog, at least, would have dealt him a swift death. What truly happened was much, much worse…”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

_Frerin returned just shy of dawn, the receding shadows of the night at his heels, and Dwalin and Balin trailing in his wake. He offered no verbal apology for the words they had exchanged, but a clap and squeeze to Thorin's shoulder was just as eloquent a request for forgiveness, and Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgment and acceptance both. Smiling tremulously, Frerin waited until Dis had joined them, then moved to swing an arm about each of his siblings, pulling them in close until their heads touched._

_“No matter what comes,” he said, softly but fiercely. “I will be forever grateful for what was. For the sister who cannot hold her tongue and the brother who often seems unable to find his. For the moments we have shared; in grief, in joy, in silence, and in laughter. If they are to end here, the lives we have lived and shared have at least been good ones, and I would not trade mine for anything. If they are_ not _to end here, I will ask you both to blame this on a moment of lunacy, and forget everything I have just said.”_

_Dís made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, gripping her brothers tightly. “You will both be alright,” she affirmed. “I will accept nothing less.”_

_Thorin opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the deep, echoing boom of the war horns. The call to arms had been sounded, and the mood swiftly changed from tense expectation to dreaded action. As Frerin bid Dís a proper farewell Thorin drew Dwalin aside with a hand on his arm, speaking in low, insistent tones._

_“I cannot stand with all of my family today, for our ranks are divided. Will you watch over him for me?”_

_“Have I not always?” Dwalin answered grimly, hefting his twin axes. “Balin and I will keep an eye on him. You have my word.”_

_Smiling his thanks, Thorin turned to receive a final embrace from his sister, before hastening to his place in the front lines. His father greeted him with a silent nod and the same weariness in his eyes that had not left since Erebor fell. But Thror... Thror was enthralled, gazing upon Moria as if it itself was a priceless jewel. Thorin barely heard the speech he gave acclaiming their cause and how they would prevail, his attention focussed on the orcs slowly spilling from the mountain to form rank upon rank of armed and ready adversaries. The tang of death hung in the air, a palpable shroud of bloodshed, and he shifted his grip on his sword and reminded himself to breathe. To steady. His people would look to him for guidance. He would not give them further reason to fear._

_Then the horn sounded again, and battle was joined._

_In his memory, the fight would exist only as a series of sketched horrors. That terrible moment when the two forces clashed and dozens of Durin's Folk fell in an instant, though they returned the blow twofold. His separation from his father, each of them battered to separate corners of the battlefield, never to lay eyes upon one another again. The triumph of Nain's arrival and the surge that came with the added fighting strength he had brought. The despair that nearly gripped him when Nain fell and Azog cast Thror's head at his feet. Of his own victory that day he remembered precious little. It was a blur of movement and pain and the need to save_ something _._

_But the aftermath... the aftermath would haunt him for years to come._

_His makeshift shield clutched in one hand and his sword in the other, he scoured the battlefield for any sign of his father, helping the wounded where he could and marking the dead for those appointed with the grim task of gathering them. He was wounded himself, weary to the point he could see nothing clearly, but there were too few survivors and too much grief for him to let his own weakness show. The King and his heir were dead and missing, so it fell to Thorin to do as he had been all along: leading._

_“Thorin.”_

_Lost in the motion of his task he started at the familiar voice, his heart clenching tighter around the tearful emotion in that one word. He had not expected to see Dís out here, amongst the devastation that was all that was left of their ill-fated attempt to reclaim Moria, but when he turned to face her and saw the grief on her face, he knew she did not bear good news._

_“It is Frerin,” she continued, her voice breaking, and he felt his heart stutter forcefully. “I can’t find him.”_

_He hadn't thought to look for Frerin, who had been safely deposited into the care of those he trusted most. Now, fear seized him, and he found himself shouting across the battlefield._

_“Dwalin!” A dozen heads turned, but only one was that which he sought. Pounding down the hill, Dís a step behind, he skidded to a halt beside the two grieving brothers. Barely registering the tears marking both their faces, he demanded, “Where is he? Dwalin,_ where is my brother _?”_

_Balin shook his head before Dwalin could even speak, and Thorin felt his blood freeze over. He barely heard Dwalin apologising, wracked by guilt for the promise he had broken, and explaining that they had been separated by the wave of enemies bearing down upon them, that they hadn't been able to find a body. He didn't even feel Balin's hold on his arm, steadying him where he would have succumbed at last to the exhaustion threatening to drag him to the ground and dash him upon the stones. A rushing in his ears and an absence where a heartbeat should have resided, he heard only one thing, the words that escaped the lips of his stripling cousin._

_“They took prisoners with them when they retreated,” Dain said, leaning heavily on his red axe, face a mess of blood and bruises. “Perhaps Frerin was among them.”_

_Dís made a strangled sound, and Dwalin immediately turned to comfort her. Drawing in a breath that felt like the first he had taken in an age, Thorin shook off Balin's supporting hold and took a step towards Dain._

_“Then we must save them.”_

_Dain's expression went from one of weariness to shuttered mistrust in the blink of an eye, his answer a single, flat word. “No.”_

_“No?” Thorin repeated, anger stirring, fear and exhaustion and sorrow fanning the flames._

_“No.” Dain was unmoving. “Look around you, Thorin. Look at what we have lost. We do not have the strength to assail Moria again. We barely survived today's battle. My - my father is_ dead _. These people are my responsibility now, and I will not shed further blood for a hopeless cause.”_

_“Then you would abandon your kinsmen - abandon Frerin - to their fate?”_

_“I abandon nothing.” There was no emotion in Dain's eyes, just cold, hard steel. “They are already dead. The living take precedence.”_

_“Then go.” Contempt flooded him, and he ignored Balin's attempt to intercede. “Go cower with your tail between your legs. Leave, but do so with the knowledge we do not part in friendship. You are a coward, Dain Ironfoot, who would condemn dozens to death to avoid risking your own neck. You are not worthy to bear the title of an Heir of Durin.”_

_“As you wish.” Dain's expression did not change, but his words were barbed. “But do not forget, Thorin, that it was not I who brought this misfortune down upon our heads. You may thank Thror for that, or curse him, as he rightly deserves.”_

_Throwing his axe across his shoulders, the young dwarf lord stormed away. Thorin watched him go, chest heaving, then turned to Balin._

_“Is there any way...?”_

_“Without Dain's men?” The older dwarf shook his head. “We'd never make it past the first level, laddie. Dain was right. Anyone dragged into those depths is already dead.”_

_“Moria is a dwarf realm,” Thorin argued, staring up at the mine's yawning entrance. “There is still hope.”_

_“A fool's hope, Thorin,” Dwalin told him. “Nobody is walking out those gates alive.”_

_Thorin chose not to listen, clinging to his fragile hope even as he helped gather the bodies of the dead. He kept the flame of faith alive even as his sleep was rent apart by false memories of his brother screaming his name as he was dragged away. As Dís added Frerin's name to the giant memorial stone, tears flooding her cheeks. As one day passed into two and two into three. On the fourth dawn, however, his vigil was broken and his hopes crushed like broken glass underfoot. Kneeling beside the row of mangled bodies he felt a part of his spirit wither and die, leaving him the moment his fingers closed about the clasp jammed into the hands of one of the unrecognisable corpses._

_“It's Frerin,” he whispered without turning to face the eyes bearing into his back, lifting his head to the sky instead and watching as his world crashed down around him._

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

“That's...” Helpless to find words, waving his hand in an effort to communicate his distress and distract himself from the rising nausea stinging at the back of his throat, Fíli tried again. “That's...” He didn't want to say it, but the words were building at the back of his throat, along with a cloying panic that said he needed to know even though he would really rather not. “That's what Bolg had planned for me, wasn't it? He was going to...”

Eyes haunted by memories both near and distant, Thorin merely nodded, tightlipped, and Fíli's courage forsook him. Staggering to his feet, forgetting his cane in his haste so that he was forced to drag his injured limb to keep his balance, he strove to put some distance between himself and... and everything. Fleeing almost blindly, he eventually found himself clinging to a wagon with one hand as his stomach rebelled against all he had eaten and left him choking on the wrong end of Bilbo's stew. Only once the fit had started to subside did he realise there was a hand rubbing circles in his back, his mother's voice a soft, reassuring melody above him.

Trembling, he pulled himself around to slide down the wagon's side, using the wheel as a backrest whilst he stared, helplessly, at his shaking hands. The motion would not cease no matter how hard he tried to hold himself still, so he settled for tucking them into his armpits in an effort to stifle the tremors.

“Fíli?” Crouched beside him, one arm wrapped about his shoulders, her other hand closed about his forearm, Dís looked at him in search of an explanation.

“I...” He didn't know what to tell her. How to explain the flood that had been unleashed from its bindings all by a few simple words. He was fine. He _was_. He had convinced himself of that, pushed what he could not face far, far away and focused on his family alone because Kíli had needed his brother and Thorin had needed his heir. But it had been easier in Rivendell. Easier in a place flooded with elvish magic meant to banish all darkness, even that which lingered in the mind. Out here he had no defenses but his own, and his own were crumbling away. “I don't... Can't... Ma, he... they...” 

Eloquence failing him, he blurted out the two words he had bitten back time and time again in his captivity, trying not to render even more devastation upon his uncle. Knowing, even as he did so, that he did not have the strength to endure forever.

“It... It  _hurt_.” 

They tripped off his tongue like anchors dragging the sea with them, and Dís face twisted as she reached for him. 

“I didn't think anyone was coming.” Now that he had started, he found he couldn't stop, the words flowing forth in a torrent. “I thought I was going to die and I was... I was so afraid. I was so, so….”

“Oh, my little one, I know.” Gathering him in her arms, Dís cradled him like a small child as the first sob wrenched its way free, torn from his chest by a clenched fist that cared not for the pain it inflicted. There was no stopping the surge of grief that followed, and he clung to his mother as he wept around the strangled screams that wanted to escape his lips. Dís held onto him just as fiercely, rocking and whispering all the while. “Sh, dearest. It's over. I promise that it is over. You're safe now, Fíli. You're _safe_.”

He was, a distant, unaffected corner of his mind realised. He _was_ safe, so he let himself fall into his mother’s warm presence and come apart at the seams.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

It was hours later when Thorin came looking for them, the firm tread of his boots on the grassy hillside announcing his presence, for Dís could not draw her eyes away from her eldest son’s face to look. He was sleeping now, all the agony of the waking world washed away in slumber, and she let her hands absently work through his hair as she cradled his head in her lap. Her brother said nothing, simply coming to sit beside her, a warmth at her side, ready to wait out the remainder of the night in silence if that was what she needed.

“Kíli?” she asked instead, voice a soft whisper for fear of waking her other son.

“Is worried,” Thorin replied, equally quiet. “But I think I have managed to convince him there is no cause for outright alarm. He is with Bilbo now.”

Dís merely hummed softly in response, and Thorin fell silent again, content to linger in his own thoughts if she was not of a mind to share hers. After a long moment of lingering stillness, however, she found her voice again, never taking her eyes away from her child’s face as she spoke.

“Nali used to have terrible dreams.” Thorin shifted beside her, but said nothing, prompting her onwards without words. “He never made a sound, never woke me, but I know he suffered. I would wake sometimes in the middle of the night and he was gone. I would always find him in Fíli’s room, holding his son in his arms as if it was the only safe place in the entire world. He’d never talk about it. I’m not sure if he knew how, but sometimes I wonder if he just didn’t want to hurt me. If he thought it would be easier for us both if he just smiled and pretended he was whole.”

“Dís…” It was a gentle interjection, so she did not hesitate to speak over it, turning to Thorin at last so she could meet his gaze directly.

“I don’t want that for Fíli, Thorin. I don’t want him pretending he is happy for any one’s sake, or shoring away his nightmares because he believes he must be strong for his people, for his family. I just want…”

“Your children to be safe, and whole, and happy,” Thorin finished for her, reaching out to lightly grip her shoulder. “As is your right and theirs.”

She smiled, though it was not an expression of joy. “You and I both know that what is right is rarely what is given. My children have walked through horrors beyond even those that I have seen, and still fate seems bent on laying hardship upon hardship upon their shoulders.”

“A burden they do not carry alone,” Thorin reminded her, squeezing gently, before releasing his hold on her. “As you never cease to remind me, Dís, none of us stands alone. You must trust that that will be enough. That your sons are strong enough to endure, as they have already proven themselves to be. That you will be there to heal what hurts they cannot heal themselves, never failing or faltering, for you have ever been sturdier than I.”

“Such optimism, Thorin.” Her smile this time was truer, driven by genuine mirth. “Frerin would be proud of you.”

“Of us both, I hope.” Returning her smile, Thorin rose, but did not depart before offering some final words of wisdom. “And you are wrong, Dís.” Lifting her head, she tilted it quizzically, awaiting elaboration. Still smiling in a way that softened his too-hard features, Thorin continued, “Nali may have chosen to mask all manner of things with laughter, but it was not always false. He was happy with you. Never doubt that, and never doubt that you are enough. You have always been exactly what you need to be. You are too stubborn to settle for anything less.”

 


	38. An Heir and His Brother

 

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 38  
**

**_An Heir and His Brother _ **

“Is Fíli alright?”

Drawn from his preoccupation, Thorin turned to glance at his youngest nephew, finding Kíli’s gaze pinned on another. Namely his brother, who was at present limping along the narrowing path ahead of them, as pale and withdrawn as he had been all day. Kili and Thorin had each in their own turn offered help, and had both been refused, left to trail a few steps back, ready to intervene should the need arise. Dís had also been turned away, and had since vanished from Thorin's sight, no doubt seeking solitude to plot her response. His sister could be devious when she wanted to, but right now she was not what concerned him, even if he rather wished she was here to answer her younger son's questions.

No matter what he wished to say it was clear to Thorin that Fíli did not want to share his ordeal with his brother, or even with Thorin, who had been there for most of it and could guess at the feelings his heir chose to hide behind a facade of calm reliability. Whether that was because he wished to spare them further guilt or simply because the instinct to keep a firm barrier between Kíli and all possible forms of harm was so ingrained he was not certain, and his thoughts on how to handle the matter were just as irresolute.

Was he to betray the confidences of one to allay the fears of another? Fíli had not confided in him, not really, but he knew enough to know what the young dwarf was not saying. And then there was Kíli, who had always had a certain fragility about him. An openness and vulnerability that drew others to his side and instilled in them a desire to shield and protect. Kíli, who had always held him in such high regard, yet had still managed to disobey him when such a course of action was called for. Kíli, who had turned away from one challenge only to charge into another. There was strength there, hidden beneath outward uncertainty and youthfulness that lingered despite the experience that should have chipped it away, and the thought struck Thorin that perhaps... perhaps his youngest nephew deserved more credit than any of them were allowing him in this matter.

“No,” he answered slowly. “He is not.”

Kíli nodded, biting his lip, and for a moment Thorin doubted the wisdom of taking away the steadying presence Fíli had always been in his younger sibling’s life. They were two halves of a whole, his nephews, and to shift the balance that existed between them... But Kíli was already rallying, turning to meet Thorin's gaze directly with that familiar fire.

“How can I help?”

And there it was, he thought, pride softening his expression into a smile. The reason they were standing here today. Not gold or armies or power. Not even duty, for Kíli had counted that as unimportant in the face of his devotion to his family. It was the simplest of things, a quality that had been cherished amongst the common folk and dismissed too often by straying kings, and yet it had saved them all.

“I do not know.” Realizing his nephew was still awaiting a response he endeavoured to provide an answer that he did not have, letting his eyes settle on his heir’s back as he kept moving steadily forwards. “That is something your brother must decide for himself. If he does not want to involve you in his troubles there may be little you can do to appease them.”

“Not telling me anything doesn't make me any less involved,” Kíli pointed out, sounding frustrated. “He's acting like...”

He cut himself off abruptly. Too abruptly for Thorin to let it go. Reaching out, he stilled Kíli with a hand on his shoulder, turning his younger nephew about to face him.

“This is not like Erebor, Kíli,” he promised. “He is not under some spell. He simply does not know how to face this.”

“That's because we are supposed to do it together,” Kíli retorted. “But he's trying to do it all alone.”

“ _Contrary to what you seem to believe, my dear brother. These...” Two hands clapped him on either shoulder, the smile their bearer wore one of fond exasperation. “Are not actually strong enough to hold up a whole mountain all on their own.”_

And therein lay his answer, he realised, for in pushing his brother away, in attempting to protect Kíli, Fíli was stealing from himself his greatest source of comfort. Two halves of a whole, and maybe they were both a little worse for wear, pieces that no longer fit as they once had, but their strength still lay in each other, and he would not see that bond fracture now after all it had endured intact.

“Fíli believes every burden is his to carry,” he said aloud. “He will sooner buckle his own shoulders than risk laying a little on others. It is his strength, but it is also a weakness, as Frerin took great pains to remind me. Often.”

It was strange, how little it pained him to utter that name now, when for years he hadn’t been able to think of his fallen brother without experiencing the wealth of guilt and loss that came with it. The pain was still there, a muted, throbbing ache that would never abate, but for the first time in an age his mind had closed the door on those final memories, allowing him to gaze upon those that had come before.

“When Erebor fell, Thror was already lost.” Taken by surprise at so ready an admission of what his uncle never spoke of, Kíli stumbled slightly, and Thorin instinctively reached out to steady him. Once assured the younger dwarf had found his feet again he continued, “Thráin was devastated by the loss of my mother, without the will to wrest any sort of command from Thror, and so it fell to me to guide our people safely through the wilderness our allies had abandoned us too. I was far too young for such a charge, but it was my duty, and one I was fully prepared to face alone, right up until the moment Frerin kicked me in the shin.”

“Did he really…?” Kíli’s voice was strangled, as though he wanted to laugh but was not certain it would be permitted.

Muscles twinging at the echoing memory of a dozen such kicks, Thorin nodded. “Frerin believed his claim as my brother far exceeded any I might have over him as his future king. Which, to his mind, granted him the right to speak his thoughts freely whenever he chose, usually at great length. He had a great talent for providing distraction without ever leading one to believe that was what he was doing until after the fact, through the simply virtue of impeccable manners. He was always far too polite for anyone to believe he had ever intentionally led them astray.”

He paused, seeking the right way to phrase his next words, and wondering how much further his heir intended to stumble before he admitted he was in need of aid.

“I do not know if I would have managed without Frerin’s help,” he said at last, softly, each word nothing less than the truth. “Him and Dís both. They were there to remind me of what was important whenever I was in danger of forgetting, and they never once left me to face anything alone.”

“He doesn’t want my help, though.” Fretful, Kíli glared at his brother’s back in frustration.

“And I did not want Frerin’s,” Thorin replied mildly. “That does not change the fact that I needed it. We all take on burdens that are too heavy to carry alone, and, for those of us without the wisdom or the will to seek the aid of others, a good kick can be a timely reminder. Your brother still needs you. Do not let him convince you otherwise.”

“I won't,” Kíli vowed, fresh determination putting the bounce back in his step as he quickened his pace to fall into place beside his brother. Thorin watched them silently, his worry eased somewhat by the rightness of seeing the pair of them side by side. It was neither a solution nor a cure, but it was a start, perhaps the best he could hope for under the circumstances.  

“Well done.”

Having made a fair effort to jump out of his skin, he swung about to glare at his lightfooted sister, her name escaping his lips in a low growl. “ _Dís_.” 

She smiled, the very picture of innocence, and repeated, “Well done.” 

Turning back to view his nephews, one a jittering mass of eager intentions, the other bowed beneath the weight of all he would not say, he frowned. “I am not so certain.”

“They'll figure themselves out,” Dís assured him, ignoring his glare as she linked her arm with his. “Fíli just needs to realise, as Frerin and I taught you, that his brother is perfectly capable of facing the worst right alongside him.”

“They shouldn't have to,” he answered in low tones. “Either of them.”

“No,” Dís said slowly, agreeing. “They should not. But that is why we are here, Thorin. My children have already been denied the future they should have had. I will be damned before I see another torn away from them.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Fíli drew in a breath, letting his fingers slide down the shaft, gliding over smooth wood and momentarily flattening the fletching. It snapped back upright in their wake, perked and ready to guide his arrow to its mark, and for an absurd moment he envied it its resilience.

_The blow came from behind, knocking him onto his hands and knees, a ripple of pain crashing across his shoulders. He moved to push himself upright, but the kiss of cold steel on his neck froze him in place, and for a horrifying, terrifying second he thought he had met his end._

Another breath as he maneuvered the arrow into place and pulled, feeling the resistance as the string began to move and wood bowed in deference to its commands. 

_He was pulled to his feet, a guttural shout in his ear, and yanked around to face the object of the raised voice. Frozen by the blade pressed against his skin he found himself staring into his uncle's wide eyes, acutely aware of the fact the tremor in Thorin's hands did not stem solely from fatigue. Distantly, he was aware of victory being claimed across the battlefield, a surge of triumph that had not yet reached their corner of the struggle, and would likely come too late._

_“Drop it,” Bolg commanded, the common syllables falling harshly from his lips. “Surrender, or I finish your line once and for all.”_

Hand at his mouth, stance steady, he released, watching with outward calm as the shaft flew wide of its mark. Loosening another arrow from his quiver he began again, letting his hands focus on the motion as his mind wandered.

_Thorin would not risk it, not after all that had happened with Kíli, and Fíli had known the beseeching look he pinned on his uncle would do no good even as he felt compelled to try anyway. He watched with an odd sense of detachment as Thorin's blade clattered to the ground and his enemy leapt upon him, driving him to the ground with gnashing teeth and flying fists that never a lethal blow struck. Fíli himself was wrenched about, his hands bound roughly before he was thrust over a warg's back like luggage and made to cling for dear life as his enemy fled for theirs._

The second arrow landed a short distance to the right of the first, still not close enough, and he pulled out a third. 

_At the foot of the Ered Mithrin, Bolg sent three of his riders and all his mounts west with haste, a diversion to cast off pursuit. The remainder of his troop proceeded on foot, hustling their captives on before them as they made for the tunnels beneath the mountains. For their refuge. Fíli knew they had to escape before then. Before the mountains that should have been their home closed over their heads as a prison. They needed to break free now, with a sky still above their heads and open lands behind them._

_He could not see Thorin amidst the bustling forms of their captors, so there was no hope of sending a signal to his uncle before he slowed his stride ever so slightly, prompting the Orc behind him to shove him roughly onwards. Fíli stumbled, more than the gesture warranted, his bound hands closing easily about the long knife concealed in his belt. Turning with speed that had been hard won and worth every hour of practice he drove the thin blade between the armour plating of his warden, a vicious sense of satisfaction overtaking all else as the vile creature squealed in pain and fell back to writhe in the dirt._

_Without the luxury of time enough to either take the Orc’s weapon or free his hands, Fíli swung about to face the repercussions his actions had caused, flinging himself on the first enemy to approach him in the hopes he still held the element of surprise. For a heady moment he was invincible, ducking all hands that tried to seize him, his knife a flash of silver constantly moving and never missing its mark. Then fingers, cold and hard as steel, seized him by the collar and hurled him onto the ground in his enemy's midst._

_A boot slammed down on his fingers, preventing him from snatching up his knife again as cruel hands divested him of his armor and every last blade but one. Angry, furious at himself for failing, he kept on struggling even as he was dragged to his knees before Bolg. Aware of Thorin's gaze on him from somewhere away to his right he kept his head defiantly high and his shoulders set. Bolg viewed him for a moment with malice, then he simply smiled, swinging his mace to bring the blunt end smashing into the side of the dwarf's head._

_Fíli saw stars, and then he saw nothing._

His hands was shaking, throwing off his aim, and he lowered them both, concentrating on just breathing for several long minutes. Behind him the protesting creak of wagon wheels and the muttered curses of those trying to keep them moving reminded him of where and when he was. Safe, his mother had said, and she had never lied to him. Flexing his stiffening fingers he raised both bow and arrow again, adjusted his footing, and drew.

_A kick to the stomach drew him back to the waking world for what he knew was not the first time, his head pounding, eyes blurring, and confusion and panic threatening to choke him. There was noise, loud and roaring and fit to make his head split open, so he staggered to his feet, blinking around the dark patches in his vision until his surroundings swam into focus._

_It was no comfort that he didn’t recognize them._

_Seated on the tiered stone carved by his own kin long ago was a hissing and writhing mass of goblins and lesser orcs, an audience to add to the sport his capture had become. Bolg was pacing in a circle around him, addressing the masses in the Black Speech, and Thorin... Fíli’s heart leapt for a moment at laying eyes upon his uncle, who had been kept from him ever since his ill-advised escape attempt, locked in a separate cell, so that neither knew how the other fared. Taking a step forward he moved his hands in an abortive movement, the gesture stilled the moment he realised his uncle was on his knees, chained and gagged, watching Fíli with an expression of such fear his momentary hopes plummeted to the soles of his boots._

_Dreading what he would find, he slowly turned back to Bolg, eyes alighting on the brutes that flanked him on either side. They were familiar, if ugly, faces. Those worn by the guards who had taken great pleasure in striking as many blows as they could on the journey to this infested hole, who had drawn him back to wakefulness again and again only to plunge him back into oblivion with fresh hurts. Each was now brandishing their weapon of choice, and looking at Fíli with a hunger for blood seared into their deformed faces._

_Unwittingly, he took a step back, then another._

_On the third step they charged, and he ran._

His arrow hit its mark this time, off centre, but firmly embedded. Still dissatisfied, he began the routine again, measuring each breath as it left his lips, his body at a disconnect with his mind, each fighting their own, distinct battles.

_What followed was terror, and pain, and flight. It was not enough to stay out of the range of reaching blades. He would tire eventually, so he knew if he hoped to survive - a dwindling hope he clung to because there was nothing else - he needed to overcome his adversaries._

_Ducking, rolling, and leaping clear of what were meant to be death strikes he struggled to catch his breath. He misjudged his footing, landed on his haunches, and had to scrabble backwards, breathing hard, to avoid being skewered. His hand itched for the knife in his boot, but he had no chance to free it from its trappings, moving because of he did not he was dead. The two attacking him were large and powerful, but he soon realised they were also lacking in the sharp intelligence that made Bolg so dangerous. If he could not outmatch them, perhaps he could outsmart them…_

The ‘thud’ as the arrow pierced his imaginary bullseye brought with it a swell of pride, a feeling that clashed with the dread in his heart and turned his stomach. He ignored his twisting insides, determined to repeat his success, and plucked another dart from his dwindling quiver.

_It was easier, in the end, than he ever would have thought possible. Half-sitting, half-lying upon the stone floor he tried to draw air into his lungs at a rate swift enough to ease their burning cravings and tried not to laugh at the near comical sight of Bolg’s champions impaled on each other’s swords. He was bleeding from more places than he cared to count, his every limb was trembling, his heart racing with the adrenaline of skimming along the edge of death’s abyss, but he was still alive._

_With the rushing in his ears, he did not at first hear Bolg’s laughter, turning to Thorin in the exhilaration of the moment, only to find his uncle’s expression devoid of anything he might have wished to see, the older dwarf’s head moving in a slow shake of denial as his eyes betrayed his horror. Behind Fíli something growled, and he rolled over, unable to find the strength to stand as terror replaced momentary elation._

_Fangs dripping, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl, the warg called forth from the pit stood in obedience at its master’s side, never taking its eyes off Fíli. Scrambling to his feet he scanned his surroundings for something, anything to defend himself, but there was nothing but the excited faces of those who bayed for his blood, and the helplessness in Thorin’s eyes as he pulled against his bindings to no purpose. Fíli was alone, trapped with certain death, and he felt the full force of that realisation in the second before Bolg bent at the waist and whispered a single word of command in the beast’s ear._

_With a terrifying roar, the warg leapt forward. Fíli couldn’t move fast enough, feet scrabbling on stone and his overwhelming fear not enough to lend him the strength to escape. The beast headbutted him, sending him sailing across the length of the arena to land, badly, and roll into one of the walls. Hands beat at him from above, goblins chittering madly as they leapt up and down, and he rolled away from them, desperately trying to regain his feet before a clawed paw caught him in the midriff and threw him back down again. There was a terrible crunch as teeth as sharp as razor tipped blades sank into his leg and his vision whited out, and then the screaming started._

_He didn’t realise ‘til later that the voice he heard, drenched in agony and terror and imminent death, was his own._

His fingers closed about empty space, and Fíli started back to himself, breathing heavily and somewhat confused as to how his chosen target had shifted from a wagon side to a piece of wood bristling with nearly an entire quiver of arrows. A small, ludicrous part of his mind took a second to admire the placing of the barbs, then reality reasserted itself in the form of his brother’s tentative voice.

“Fíli?”

He turned, pushing his damp hair away from his face and mustering a smile to banish the uncertainty lingering in Kíli’s own expression. Judging by the way his brother’s visage remained unmoving that smile was a spectacular failure, but at least he had tried.

“What is it, Ki?” he asked, using the bow’s string to sling it across his shoulder so he could grip his cane in one hand and hobble across to retrieve his misplaced arrows. “Time to go?”

“Yes.” He could practically feel Kíli’s scowl bearing into his back as he pulled his arrows out of the wagon one by one, but he’d had too much practice withstanding Thorin’s dour expression to succumb to his brother’s, admittedly admirable, imitation. “But, Fíli…”

“Best not keep them waiting, hm?” He whirled about, arrows stowed, smile firmly in place, only for Kíli to take three strides forward to place himself firmly in the way.

“I am not a child, Fíli,” he declared adamantly. “Don’t you dare treat me like one.”

Smile faltering, he tried to answer, “I’m not –”

“You are,” Kíli cut him off. “You’re pretending that everything is fine, and I know it isn’t. I can see that it isn’t. Why won’t you talk to me?”

 _Because I don’t want to,_ lingered on the tip of his tongue, right beside _I can’t_. Aloud, he simply said, “It’s nothing, Ki. Don’t worry about it.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” his brother demanded hotly, dark eyes flashing. “Look the other way? I can’t do that, Fíli. I _won’t_.”

“And I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“Why not?”

“I just… I can’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You don’t understand. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t _need_ protecting!”

“Yes, you do!” The hurt that flashed across Kíli’s face made him instantly regret those shouted words, but at the same time they drove him onwards, intent on a goal he did not truly wish to reach at all. “You keep asking me to be honest with you, but you don’t really want to know anything. You can’t stand the thought of what really happened to _you_ , let alone what happened to me, so stop pushing so hard for something you don’t even want!”

“I want…” Kíli faltered, his emotions bleeding through as clearly as they ever had. “I just want to help.”

“You can’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know – ”

“ _Nothing_.” The vehemence with which he was cut off took him by surprise and he shifted his weight backwards, aware, suddenly, that his brother was genuinely angry. “I was _there_ , Fíli. I heard you screaming. I saw my brother being… being tortured for the sport of our enemies. I held you in my arms as your life slipped away and I couldn’t do a thing! Maybe I didn’t see everything, but I saw enough, and you can’t protect me from that, brother.” Fire dying as abruptly as it had flared, Kíli stared at him with eyes too old to dwell in so young a face. “I know how close I came to being too late. I am not a child. Not anymore.”   

“Ki…” He didn’t have the words, spreading his hands helplessly. Somehow, some of what he wanted to convey must have shown on his face regardless, because the tension bled from his brother’s shoulders, and Kíli dipped his head slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with honest contrition. “I didn’t mean to…” Pausing, he backtracked swiftly, speaking with a sudden purpose, “Back in Erebor, you wouldn’t talk to me. About anything. I know this isn’t the same, but I still think… I’m you’re brother, we’re supposed to face these things together.”

The confession tasted bitter on his tongue, words that had no place in his brother’s ears, because Kíli was supposed to be spared his failings. He had no desire to heap his troubles atop those he knew his younger sibling already bore, but with Kíli looking at him so earnestly, the belief he placed behind those words visible in every facet of his face, he couldn’t very well say no. “I’m not sure I’m ready to face them alone yet, Kíli, never mind with….”

His brother rolled his eyes, and Fíli stopped, put out. “That’s the point, you idiot. You don’t have to.”

“I…” Fíli stopped, frowning, and realised he was flummoxed. “Oh.”

The snort that escaped Kíli was a wholly inelegant thing, but whatever it lacked in decorum it made up for with the mirth that brightened his brother’s eyes. “I knew you’d get it eventually,” he said, attempting a wise nod, which only really served to push his unruly hair into his eyes. “Honestly, Fi, if you think I’m going to sit there on the day they make you king and let you keep acting like you have to take care of everything yourself then you don’t know me at all. Believe it or not, I’m here to help, just like I know you’ll be there for me when I need you, even if that means helping you to stop trying to help me too much.”

Fíli blinked, taking a moment, and then decided he still had no inkling and conceded defeat. “What?”

“I have no idea,” Kíli admitted, grinning. “But it sounded like something clever, so let’s pretend I do.”

 


	39. The Lord of Nordinbad

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 39  
**

**_The Lord of Nordinbad_ **

 

 

With his eyes focussed on the ground beneath their feet and both arms firmly bracing his brother, Kíli did not at first realise that they had left the ragged woods embracing the lower slopes of the Misty Mountains. In fact it was not until Fíli lightly tapped his arm that he lifted his head and beheld their new horizon. It was not the grand vista they had seen from the Carrock, but as he gazed out on the flatlands spread before him, the winding, silver ribbon of the Anduin glittering beneath the setting sun, and the dark mass of Mirkwood stretching as far as the eye could see, Kíli could not help but feel a certain amount of relief. 

Their last journey through the Misty Mountain's had not been pleasant by any means, but the whole ordeal had ended so swiftly that the tedium of their latest venture seemed excruciating by comparison. After struggling through days of foundered wagons, shifting luggage, and steep climbs, their arrival on the piedmont was nothing less than a victory, and so he allowed himself a moment to bask in it.

At his side, face pinched and wan, no longer attempting to make any pretence of carrying the majority of his own weight, Fíli let out a slight, huffing breath.

 “I never thought I would be so grateful to lay eyes upon Mirkwood,” he said breathlessly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But I am.”

More focussed now on his brother's pallor than the view, Kíli lowered his voice as he said, “Are you alright?”

“I am both unbelievably tired and a little sore.” Reaching across, Fíli patted him reassuringly on the arm. “But find me a place to sit quietly and I will be just fine.”

Nodding, taking his words as truth, Kíli glanced about at the various groups making camp on the slopes. Thorin and Dís were away on the other side of the gathering with Tyrth and Lofi , too far to bother walking at present, but he was not sure where else to go. They had spent their nights together as a family since Rivendell, and everyone else seemed just as settled in their routines. Spotting Balin and Dwalin, he made to call for them, but was interrupted by the sound of someone giving voice to his name.

“Kíli!” He turned, eyes settling on Elrohir, who beckoned him with one hand, an invitation to join both he and his brother at their fire. “Come, my friend, sit with us, or you shall hurt Elladan's feelings by making him think you do not care for his company.”

“Don't listen to him,” Elladan added, setting the last of his mount's tack on the ground and extracting his saddlebags from the pile. “I know perfectly well why you have been avoiding us, and _my_ company is not the cause.”

Grinning, Kíli helped his brother across the short distance to take a seat next to the twins' blazing campfire, arranging himself at Fíli's side and nodding in thanks to Bilbo, who had fetched their packs off the wagon as soon as they stopped moving. Passing Fíli his he arranged his own as a backrest, making himself a comfortable seat from which to watch the antics of the evening's hosts.

Their elven escort had been remarkably unobtrusive for the duration of their journey together, and Elladan and Elrohir had, through a combination of unfaltering good humour and apparent selective deafness, managed to soothe away the vast majority of ill feeling their presence had caused. Thorin's behaviour towards the pair and their soldiers had done no harm either, so that in the end even Tyrth had been forced to concede that maybe these elves - and only these ones in particular, mind - were not the same brand of arrogant, antagonistic, holier-than-thou prats as he had previously encountered. 

Kíli had been too busy stifling his laughter to acknowledge the good omen such sentiments were for continuing relations between Erebor and Rivendell at the time, but Fíli had raised the matter later, expounding eagerly on all the reasons why a healthy alliance with Imladris would be of benefit to their reclaimed kingdom, and reminding Kíli of all the things he _didn't_ know about governing a realm. He had yet to decide whether admitting to that failing in his brother's hearing had been an act of wisdom or not. Either way, his education had been expanded somewhat significantly in the last few days, and having spent that time cramming his head with facts about diplomacy and trade it was a pleasant reprieve to lie back and listen to Elrohir and Elladan attempt to best one another in a contest of storytelling.

Thorin and Dís joined them some time later, Balin and Dwalin in tow, and even Tyrth deigned to take a place in the growing circle forming around their campfire. Lofi appeared last of all, carrying himself with the air of one in the midst of vitally important business. Quill in hand and journals spread about him, he promptly and meticulously set about documenting every word uttered, lips pursed in concentration. Kíli supposed it had been a long time since the scribe had had a chance to record the conversations of elves, though he was not sure this was the best place to start over.

“... Of course, what Elladan will not so readily tell you is that he once attempted to fly himself.” Handing out fresh servings of the evening meal to the newcomers, Elrohir looked to his brother.  “When was it? Four, five years ago?” 

“Five,” Elladan answered, tossing fresh fuel on the fire and sending red sparks dancing in the night air. “The year Estel was ill.”

“That's right.” Elrohir nodded, retaking his seat. “It was the middle of the most dreadful autumn. We'd had storms raging all across the land for weeks, and then a rider appeared nearly in the middle of the night with an urgent message from Lord Halbaron.”

“It was midmorning,” Elladan corrected patiently. “And you weren't even there. Does rearranging Erestor's papers and spending the rest of the morning hiding from his wrath in the woods sound familiar to you?”

“Not at all. You're thinking of your other twin.” Waving his hand dismissively, Elrohir continued, “The messenger told us the Rangers had stumbled across a pack of orcs who had ventured out of their hole. Nothing too unusual, save that this particular band had brought some trolls with them. Halbaron was short of men and unwilling to risk lives any more than he had to, so he asked us to go along with the company he was sending. Led by Faeron, of course, because giving him all the fun errands always puts him in a good mood.”

Elladan, who was in the midst of polishing his blade, lifted his head to pin his brother with an incredulous look. “I wasn't aware he had a good mood.”

"Elladan, hush. I am speaking.” Quelling his brother with a glare, Elrohir continued, “We found them easily enough. They weren't making the slightest attempt to hide their presence. So, whilst the Rangers employed their usual, stealthy tactics, Elladan and I decided we were going to walk right in the front door and flush them out. Of course, it wasn't quite that simple. They'd set themselves up in a ruin with a giant pair of intact stone doors, but Elladan decided to try giving them a shove regardless.”

“As I recall, it was actually your idea.”

“So.” Leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mirth, Elrohir pretended not to see Elladan's look of disdain. “My brother walks onto their doorstep, reaches up to push on the doors, and the next second _Bam_! These trolls come charging out, throwing the doors wide open as they go, and Elladan is sent flying.”

“And you so kindly stood there and watched.”

“You were angry. I didn't want to get in the way.”

“More like you were laughing too much to move.”

“It was rather funny. You flailed admirably. The Eagles surely envy your grace in flight, though your landing left a lot to be desired.”

“I am not the one Mithrandir had to pluck out of a tree.”

“That was not my fault!”

“And my getting pitched through the air by overeager trolls is any different?”

“Of course it is. You landed on Faeron. It was hilarious.”

“A pity he didn't think so,” Elladan said ruefully. “ l can still feel the dent his elbow left in my stomach. You were lucky that it was Alatair you encountered in the Ettenmoors,” he added, addressing them all. “He is by far the more reasonable of the pair.”

“Although,” Elrohir mused aloud. “To give Faeron his due, you have never used Alatair to pad a poor landing.”

“That is entirely besides the point,” Elladan retorted primly.

Leaning towards his younger sibling, Fíli spoke in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “So this is what happens when you get to be three thousand years old; lunacy.”

“Hey!”  Elrohir protested, at the same time as his brother said, “Who told you how old we were?”

Fíli smiled, waving his hand in a casual gesture. “Oh, I asked Estel.”

“That little traitor!” Elrohir hissed, sounding betrayed.

“He told you wrong,” Elladan added. “We are only _nearly_ three thousand years old, give or take a century. Children, really. It is a wonder Ada lets us out of the house.”

“No.” Elrohir shook his head. “What's really a wonder is that he lets us back _in_.”

Away to Kíli's right, Tyrth muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'bloody elves' whilst Lofi  covered his laughter with an inelegant snort. 

Seeing that the scribe was still busy writing, Kíli spoke up, “You are not really recording all of that, are you?”

“And why not, young lord?” Lofi  pinned him with a stern look. “Is not every step of the journey important? How many histories have you read where time is measured only in the distance between battles? Where the past of a nation is recorded only in its greatest victories and failures? Moments such as these are counted as unimportant, for they are not bathed in either shadow or glory, and yet these are the moments for which shadows are faced and over which glory can never hope to conquer. These are the moments that matter, and so I shall write them down, so that one day they might inspire others to endure whatever suffering they may find themselves facing.”

“Eloquently said, Master Lofi !” Elrohir applauded lightly. “If only all historians were of like mind, I - ”

“Might actually have bothered reading a book from time to time?” Elladan suggested lightly, then ducked as Elrohir hurled his cloak at him.

“I did not need a book,” he stated. “That's what Glorfindel is for. And Erestor and Ada.”

“I am sure they will all be relieved to know there is a purpose to their existence.” Elladan nodded thoughtfully. “Now, if only we could find one for you...”

As no doubt intended, Elladan's words led to another round of irreverent squabbling, and Kíli exchanged a grin with his own brother, well aware of the purpose behind the twins' act. Both of them knew perfectly well how to behave properly when it was called for, but their current antics had eased whatever tension remained around the campfire, including that not caused by their presence. Fíli was the most relaxed he had been in days, Thorin was trying to hold onto an expression of distaste and failing as Dís smiled indulgently beside him, and the rest of those near enough to overhear the conversation were either deliberately ignoring the elves or listening on with curiosity, mirth, and disbelief. It was a fine impression to part on, and Kíli sobered slightly as he remembered their elven escort would leave them in the morning, bound for Lothlorien in the south as the dwarves turned north to the Ered Mithrin.

To Nordinbad, and all that he had wrought there.

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

“I'm not saying it's a bad plan.” Trudging along the banks of the Anduin, Lofi waved his hands in an elaborate gesture, as though they could do a better job of explaining his thoughts than his words could.

“Although it is,” Tyrth chipped in from Thorin's other side, not quite under his breath. “Absolutely terrible, really. Typically Durin.”

“I'm not saying that at all,” Lofi continued, ignoring Tyrth. “I merely think it might require a little more... finesse.”

“Finesse, eh? Like maybe not walking through the front door?” Tyrth suggested mildly, although his gaze was sharp.

“I am the only one with any intention of doing that,” Dís reminded them both. “And I shall have Balin and Dwalin with me.”

“With all due respect, my lady, it is still a very great risk,” Lofi remained unconvinced. “If what you suspect is true, if Dain is no longer in control of Erebor, you could be marching to your own execution. How are we to know these traitors will stop to ask questions first?”

“Killing me would hardly endear them to Erebor's citizenry,” Dís pointed out practically. “And, after all the time they have spent on this plot, I cannot see them endangering it through one rash act. One of us needs to reach Dain. Thorin cannot do it, not if we wish to keep his presence there a secret, and Dain could refuse any request made by you. He cannot refuse me, nor would anyone else have grounds to intrude upon a private audience between us. It is the surest way of discovering the truth.”

“And if Dain is a part of this treachery?” Tyrth, ever the pessimist, spoke again. “You said yourself that Valin has been a trusted member of his court for years. A mentor, even. How are we to know if Dain's own intentions are as benign as we believe?”

“I will not believe that of him,” Thorin interceded, deliberately not meeting the look of pleased surprise his sister shot him at that admission. “And nor should you. Dain was under no obligation to lend us aid after Moria, but he did, and Ered Luin has much to thank him for. He is a dwarf of honour. He would not betray his kin. Not like this.”

“You don't like him,” Tyrth pointed out sourly.

“And that is my own affair. It changes nothing of the truth.”

“I still do not care for the idea of you and he alone,” Lofi drew them all back to the point, speaking directly to Dís. “Even if you are right, and Dain is true, we do not know what hold the enemy might have over him. In trying to protect his people he may well turn against you.”

“I suppose that is a risk I will simply have to take.” Dís shrugged slightly. “Without the ravens, there is no other sure way of acquiring news of Erebor, or discovering what has become of the rest of the Company. What we need right now are hard facts, and we will not find those by erring on the side of caution.”

“What if you did not go alone?” Tyrth suggested. “You could take Prince Kíli with you.”

“Into Erebor?” Dís baulked at the idea. “It is too dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than it is for you.” Lofi sided with his fellow councillor. “And it may help to dislodge any plans that might already be in motion. Dain was accused of foul play. He could not ask for more irrefutable proof of his innocence.”

“Personally, I think this falling out with Dale bears investigating as well.” Balin, who had been maintaining a position of neutral silence, chose now to voice his thoughts. “Bard and Dain were on good terms when Dwalin and I left the mountain. I would like to know what went wrong.”

“I would like to know what _didn’t_ go wrong,” Tyrth retorted. “One bloody mess after another, this is.”

“We’re still alive,” Thorin pointed out wryly.

“No small feat,” Lofi agreed. “If the tales Master Baggins tells are to be believed. The true challenge lies in making sure you stay that way.” 

One of these days, Thorin decided firmly, he was going to have to gag that hobbit. Or at the very least have a long discussion about the meaning of the word ‘discretion’. Then again, knowing his nephews, they would probably have shared whatever Bilbo did not, and he was suddenly grateful that it was their Burglar who had been telling the tale.

“Speaking of which.” Grinding to a halt, Tyrth viewed the growing silhouette of the Ered Mithrin on the horizon, a quizzical frown on his face. “Are we not going the wrong way? Erebor is east of here, if I am not mistaken. Please tell me we are not lost.”

“We are not lost.” Affixing his own gaze to the snow peaked range, Thorin spoke, half to himself, “We are merely visiting an old friend.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

 “Well, now,” Balin murmured, his voice filled with awe. “Isn't that a sight for sore eyes?”

Remembering his own sense of wonder when he first laid eyes upon the face of Nordinbad, Kíli found himself tilting his head in agreement, even as his lips remained pressed firmly together, nerves holding any words he might have spoken in check. The last time he had stood in this very spot it had been with the knowledge that if he did not acquire aid any chance of saving his family would slip right through his fingers. Now he carried with him the biting truth that he had brough death to this peaceful realm. That his actions had led others to their doom, and it was by far the greater burden to carry.

Sensing his discomfort, Thorin laid a hand on his arm as he turned away from the city, squeezing gently.

“Come,” he said. “We have kept Lord Northri waiting for long enough. It is time he was thanked properly.”

He waited for Kíli's nod before making his way down to the path below, Balin and Dwalin falling into step behind him. Bilbo claimed his place in the middle of their small party, whilst Kíli and Dís took up their positions on Fíli's left and right, ready to offer support should it be needed.

Following the narrow trail that carved its way around the deadly drop they arrived at the same turret Kíli had climbed months before almost as one, mounting its steps under a dozen watchful eyes. Too anxious to meet any of them directly, Kíli kept his gaze fixed on the stone beneath his feet, and so jumped when the doors to Northri's realm opened with a 'bang' and Runa almost bowled Bain over in her haste to cross the distance. Ignoring both propriety and the reserve that years apart should have led to, the Lady of Nordinbad enfolded Dís in a crushing embrace, before turning and laughingly doing the same to a startled Thorin.

“Durin's beard!” she breathed, taking a step back, joy setting her eyes alight with a merry twinkle. “But it is good to see you both again. And you!” Kíli flinched, only to find himself treated to the same warm welcome as his mother and uncle. “Did I not say you would not be careful?”

“Leave the lad be, Runa.” Having traveled at a more sedate pace than his wife, Northri now joined the gathering on his doorstep. “You have a grandson of your own to fuss over.” Turning to Thorin, he extended his hand, grasping his old comrade by the forearm in a warrior's grip. “Welcome to Nordinbad, my king. We are honoured to have you here with us.”

“Titles, Northri?” Thorin's smile was one of memory, mingled pain and fondness both, as he returned Northri’s hold. “I do not recall you being so formal when you were saving my life.”

“Yes, well, you didn't look half as regal then, did you?” Northri retorted, his eyes moving to the eldest of Thorin's nephews. “Prince Fíli, I believe? You are looking much better than when I last laid eyes upon you, lad.”

“Thanks to your help.” Instead of offering his hand, Fíli fisted it across his breast, bowing low in a sign of respect. “I owe you many thanks.”

“You owe me nothing but to live a good life.” Northri waved away his gratitude. “I've seen too many young lives end sooner than they should to demand anything less.”

“I'll do my best,” Fíli promised, straightening, and Kíli froze as Northri's eyes came to settle on him, all the words he had prepared dying before they could ever reach his tongue. Northri's brow furrowed into a frown, and then Fíli's hand landed on his back, a warmth to combat the chill that had overtaken him.

“I… I wanted to ask…” He had never been overly eloquent, so it surprised no one when the words simply tumbled out of his mouth. “How many?” That explained nothing, he knew, so he added more, “How many fell because of me?”

The mirth faded from Northri's expression, replaced by something graver and sadder, but he did not answer Kíli at once, turning instead to Thorin. Thorin, who nodded his head as if granting permission, though no words had been spoken aloud.

“The answer to that question, Prince Kíli.” Northri shifted his gaze back to the younger dwarf. “Is none.”

Which was a lie, Kíli knew. “Gandalf said – ”

“Lives were lost, yes,” Northri cut him off. “And we grieve for them. But we also respect their memory, because we know the choice they made was one made freely. No warrior ever walks into battle sure that they will survive. Do not think that no one knew what you were asking when they offered you their strength. Do not diminish the value of their sacrifice by suggesting any dwarf who laid down his life beneath Gundabad did so through anything but his own bravery. Pay your respects, honour their memory, but do not carry the weight of the dead on your shoulders. It is not what they would want. Or what any of us here desire. You did not lie to them, you granted them a choice, and that is all the allowance a loyal heart needs.”

“I…” He didn’t have an answer for that, though he felt as if he should have. Fortunately, what he did have was a brother, who knew him exceptionally well, and stepped effortlessly into the silence.

“Thank you,” Fíli said. “After the time you have spent safeguarding this home I can only imagine how difficult it was to risk it all. No one would have blamed you had you held what happened against us.”

“I would have blamed me,” Northri countered swiftly. “There is not a dwarf in Nordinbad who does not owe their life here to your uncle, and do not let him tell you otherwise.”

“No need to start an argument on the doorstep,” Runa interjected before Thorin could formulate a response. “You can do that inside. We were about to take supper, perhaps you would join us?” Her eyes alighted on Dís, a wealth of curiosity swimming in their depths. “There are a thousand things I wish to ask you, and no meal is complete without a few good stories.”

“Not yet, Runa.” Northri stepped in, sweeping them all win a single glance as he said, “There will be time enough for storytelling later. Right now, I’ll wager you’ll want to visit the Vault, to pay your respects.” At a nod from Thorin he swung on his heel, beckoning their group forward. “Follow me, then. I will show you the way.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The burial chamber of the kingdom of Nordinbad was nestled in its lower levels, away from the filtered light of the higher rooms, so that it was the torches lining the walls rather than redirected sunlight that spilt their warm glow across the floor. The air was pleasantly cool, but not frigid, and the cavern lacked the coldness one might associate with a crypt. This was a place of memory and somber respect, and one could feel that the moment one set foot inside its boundaries. The sound of running water nearby only added to the ethereal feel of the room, though Fíli could not catch a glimpse of it in the half-light, and was paying more attention to his brother than his surroundings regardless.

Eleven of the stone caskets hidden at Nordinbad’s heart contained dwarves who had still drawn breath before Gundabad. It was not so very many, when one considered the danger into which they had ventured, but it was still eleven names he could see Kíli committing to memory, burning into his heart atop other scars. Experience told him there was nothing he could say to dissuade his brother from this self-punishment, and Northri’s words had not made as much of a difference as he had hoped, so he was forced to settle for keeping a reassuring hand on Kíli’s back throughout the ordeal, feeling every flinch and tremor, and wishing Kíli did not so easily take things to heart.

Eleven lives given to save his own. It was his burden to carry as well, but he had known it would be. One could not rule a realm and hold no sway over the lives within it. This… this made it real, and hard, but he set his chin and stood his ground, determined to play his part in a worthy fashion, and to help Kíli do the same. A difficulty made easier by Thorin’s decision to come and stand behind them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders in a show of silent support.

They stood like that, together, until the time came to depart, and then it was Thorin’s firm grasp guiding them both out into the hallway. Wrapped in a reverent silence none of them dared to break they followed Northri, who led them with a steady stride from the Vault to the dining hall several floors above. Even before they drew near Fíli recognized the hum of voices emanating from within, enough to perhaps explain the silence that had lingered elsewhere in Nordinbad’s rustic hallways.

Northri paused outside the great, stone doors, a hand on one of the pair as he waited for Runa to seize the other. The pair exchanged a knowing glance, then thrust them open as one, ushering their guests inside. Passing across the threshold Thorin stepped forward, Kíli to one hand and Fíli the other, and instantly a deafening noise rose within the large chamber. Nordinbad’s citizens were turned out in force, packing the hall from wall to wall as they cheered with a fervor that rebounded off every wall and reflected in every face.

Astonished, Thorin came to a dead halt, Fíli and Kíli with him, and Dís stepped forward to flank them, her eyes glimmering with a dampness that looked suspiciously like tears.

“Northri…” Thorin spoke as the noise faded a little, turning to their host with a look of bewilderment. “This is…?”

“They have been waiting years for a king they could follow. A king worthy of the title.” Smiling, Northri only shrugged, meeting Thorin’s gaze directly as he said, “Is it any wonder they want to celebrate his arrival?”

 


	40. Amongst Old Friends

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 40  
**

**_Amongst Old Friends_ **

Frerin had not been of age when Erebor fell, four years short of the ceremony that would have seen him officially adopt his role as Thorin's future Prince Regent. Young, to lose a mother and a home all in one fell swoop, but Dís had been younger, young enough that she remembered more of her life outside Erebor than the years she had spent within it. It had been her desire to explore the mountainside that day that had meant she and Frerin were not with their mother when the dragonfire came, and she had wondered, often in those early days, whether she had saved their lives or condemned her mother's with that choice. It had not taken her long to realise how destructive such thoughts were, and she had spent too much time fighting their hold on Thorin to ever submit to them herself.

She had still been a child when she watched her home burn and was told the faces she missed in the crowd would never be returning. Yet, even then she had been aware of the burden that seem to have wrapped itself about her brother's shoulders. She had not understood it, not until Frerin kicked his brooding sibling's leg, spun him around by the shoulder, and hissed sharp words in his face.

_“You are not alone.”_

That was when she had realised what her own future held. When the reality of their situation had finally sunk in and she had looked to Thorin, the brother who only yesterday had been nothing more than that, and saw what his people needed him to be. What he would become, because there was no other choice, and Thorin knew his duty too well. That was when she knew, and she made certain he knew as well.

_“You are not alone.”_

It had not been easy. Nothing had been easy after Smaug. They had needed distance between themselves and the dragon, but with the wounded and dying to carry it was no easy task. Desperate to help, she had volunteered among the other healers, only to find it was almost impossible to heal anything without supplies. Food was scant, shelter a thing unknown, the spirit of Erebor's people wilted a little more each day, and, in the midst of all their misfortune, it had fallen to Thorin to find a solution for all their many ills. 

A lesser dwarf would have broken under the strain. Thráin already had, and Frerin once confessed, in the dark watches of a cold, winter's night, that he could never have stood in Thorin's place. But Thorin did not flinch or bow. He sent out hunters to provide for their exodus across the Wilderlands, took able bodied craftsmen into the first settlement they found and worked alongside them until they could afford to purchase the provisions they so desperately needed. As Dís tended to their father and tried to talk sense into Thror, Frerin had shepherded a worried people, lingering among them and listening to all their fears with a promise to appease what he could, and Thorin... Thorin had worn himself ragged.

She had hated seeing it. Hated the fact that, by the time they settled in a barren strip of land on the border of Dunland, Thorin had spent more hours at a forge than he had in a bed. Hated watching as his efforts, and those of others, barely kept Durin's Folk afloat. Hated knowing that, if not for the food Nain sent whenever he could spare it, half of Erebor's survivors would have starved to death.

And Thror had done _nothing_.

Even now, his inaction was more likely to prompt her to tears than the anger that had overwhelmed Frerin's better judgement on more than one occasion. She still remembered the king who had set her on his knee as a babe, and let her remain there even as the day wore on and petitioners flooded the room. It hurt to know what he had become, to know that the day Thorin came home, exhausted but triumphant, bearing news of a dwarf settlement in Ered Luin that might yet be their deliverance, was the same day Thror had remembered he was king, and set his sights upon Moria.

She did not need to relive the nightmare of that day. It was still an open wound for both her and Thorin, one best left alone. She could remember the aftermath, though. The way her brother had faltered beneath the weight of all that had happened, the way Frerin's death had nearly destroyed him, and how she herself, angry and grieving, had been forced to throw his duty in his face in a desperate effort to keep him from shattering completely.

It had been necessary, but cruel, and still Thorin had picked up the pieces. Had put aside his own grief, his own weariness, and soldiered on. He had faced distrust from his people, disdain from the other clans, and scorn from their leaders, and he had borne it all because that was what was needed of him. She had tried to help, had tried to be both Frerin and herself, but she had never managed to lift that weight off his shoulders. A weight he carried without complaint, without any reward forthcoming, for even as his people learned to trust him they would never again be so free with their loyalties, save for a brave few.

Which was why she stood now, tears of joy flooding her vision, as her brother received recognition that was long overdue. The gratitude of those that remembered who had truly saved Erebor's people when the mountain fell, and were determined that their saviour should know as well. Thorin stood frozen in their midst, lips parted ever so slightly as stunned surprise overrode his usual reserve, and Dís would have hugged Northri had he been standing near enough to allow such a display. She could not have asked for better proof of all Thorin did not see in himself of late, and, this time, he could not accuse her of having the slightest hand in it.

“I remember that smile.” Drifting closer as they began to move through the crowd, Runa gave her a knowing look. “Once, it heralded nothing but mischief.”

“And you think that has changed?” she replied, watching with amusement as Thorin's progress was hampered by a universal desire to grasp his arm and utter a few words.

“Of course it has,” Runa answered her. “You have two sons. You are a mother.” With a hint of melancholy, she finished, “I have missed so much.”

“Not so very much that it cannot all be told,” Dís promised her, linking her arm with her old friend's. “And we have plenty of time...”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

The dining hall of Nordinbad was not as large as that in Erebor, or even a match for Ered Luin’s great cavern, but one would not have known that had they judged it by the time it took Thorin to walk from one end to the other. There did not seem to be a single dwarf within the room that did not wish to offer their respects, the older warriors seizing his arm as Northri had on the parapets, whilst the younger generation bowed as though he was already wearing a crown. It was humbling, and more than a little overwhelming, and by the time Northri was introducing his own family Thorin had run out of words to say.

Seeing this, Northri waved at them all to be seated, an example that was followed by the entire hall, who then proceeded to turn to their lord, clearly awaiting a few words. Shooting Thorin a wry glance, Northri seized a goblet in hand and clambered up to stand on the table, placing himself so he was visible to the whole gathering.

“We have many reasons to celebrate this evening,” he said, voice booming off every wall. “The dragon that drove us from Erebor is dead at long last, Durin’s Folk dwell beneath the Lonely Mountain again, and our King has returned to us out of great peril. Today is a good day, one I hope shall be remembered for years to come, but let us not forget those who paid the price so that we might stand here, victorious.” Raising his hand, he continued, “To the fallen. Those who are not here with us today in body, but live on in hearts and memories, in sons and daughters and a legacy we are bound to carry into the future. May their memory endure as long as the stone in which they rest.”

Of one accord those in the hall raised their cups in a solemn salute, voices united in a single echo.

“To the fallen!”

Satisfied, Northri leapt down off his perch, taking his rightful place at the head of the table, his family spread down one side and his guests on the other.

“I do apologise for springing that upon you without warning,” he addressed Thorin as he sat. “But I wanted to be certain you understood the gratitude my people still feel for the boon you granted us all those years ago. We have never forgotten, and these halls were founded as much in your name as mine. You have been and always shall be our king, no matter who rules in Erebor.”

“You give me too much credit, Northri,” Thorin attempted to dissuade such unwarranted sentiments. “What you have built here in Nordinbad is your own doing. I had no hand in it.”

“Besides the one where you let us walk free when a single word from you to your grandfather would have ended all our hopes in one fell blow?” Northri tipped his head to one side, a wry look on his face. “Forgive me, old friend, but I rather fear that, in this case, you are going to have to let others decide how much merit your actions warrant.” 

Thorin frowned, but, recognising the futility of further argument, let the matter lie for now, leaving Northri free to wave his hand at the laden table.

“Eat,” he commanded, eyes settling on the princes as he added, “Be merry. This is a celebration, I insist you treat it as such.”

From there, somewhat inevitably, their simple dinner slowly transformed into a cheerful, lively affair not unlike those the Company had shared on the road, if with a lot less airborne food. The dwarves of Nordinbad did not dine upon the finest cuisine in Middle Earth, but they made up for it with company whose value could not be measured in gold. Conversation flowed freely from all corners of the table, with young Nordri’s presence ensuring neither of Thorin’s nephews lapsed into brooding silence for too long as he plied them with questions about their adventures in the outside world. Balin, whose interest in Nordinbad went beyond its beauty, was swift to draw Gorin into a conversation about the nature of their trade, whilst Thilde, Nordri's fiery haired mother, somehow suffered the misfortune of becoming embroiled in the debate taking place between Bilbo and Dwalin about the merits dwarfish food held over its elven counterpart. But it was Dís Thorin found himself watching the most, observing the changes her old companion’s presence wrought in her demeanour with a keen eye.

Runa and Inga had once been to Dís what Balin and Dwalin were to him. Friends, lifelong and loyal, who had grown up alongside them both and had lived through many of the same hardships. That had ended when Runa left, for, whilst undoubtedly dependable, Inga adhered too much to her role as silent companion to ever be able to fill the hole Runa’s absence had carved in his sister’s life. Which perhaps went some way to explaining why Dís had felt so betrayed when Northri and his followers took their leave, and why it was Runa, years later, drawing words from Dís’ lips that not even he had managed to pry loose. Stories of her life in Ered Luin, with Nali, with her sons, that had not yet been told. 

Nali had always been the one loss his sister found hardest to bear. The sole bereavement it had taken her years to be able to look past. Where she had combated Frerin's death with memories of what had gone before, Nali's memory had seemed too painful to face, and it had not been until very recently that she had been able to speak of their days together without becoming overwhelmed. To see her now recounting many a fond recollection with a wistfulness that was not wholly formed of sadness gladdened his heart, and his feelings must have shown on his face, for Northri addressed them before he had even uttered a word of his thoughts.

“It weighs on me sometimes,” the Lord of Nordinbad confessed, speaking softly as he followed Thorin’s gaze. “The decision we made. At the time it seemed right to me, the only choice, but now I wonder if it was truly more selfish than right. We escaped doom at the price of abandoning those who faced it. Lives of peace and safety brought by the blood of our own kinsmen.”

“The victory would have been empty regardless of whether you chose to stay or not.” Thorin shook his head. “I never blamed you for seeking a road that did not lead to death.”

“I know.” Northri grimaced. “That, in a way, made it worse. You let us go without anger, without rancour, and you had every right to both.” He paused, weighing his next words, then spoke with simple honesty, “I am sorry, Thorin, for Frerin. I know what a hard blow it must have been.”

Of course he did. Northri had lost his own brothers in the wake of Smaug’s attack, as well as his father. He was no stranger to loss in all its many forms, which was doubtless why he had chosen to reject its looming advent at Moria. But Thorin had not been able to do the same, and it mattered not regardless. Death seemed to follow him no matter how hard he tried to escape it. It had taken Thror and Thrain, it had ended Frerin, Nali had been in his company when that fatal barb found him, and his nephews... His eyes drifted to them both. Kíli, whose bright smile could not quite hide the shadows in his dark eyes. Fíli, who bore far more scars than those visible on the surface. Who now sensed his gaze, turned, and smiled as though the comfort of the present made up for the hardships of the past.

And perhaps it did, in a way, for if Moria had been doomed to occur, if Frerin's fate was unchangeable, at least some good had been salvaged from the devastation. The proof of its existence was all around him, in the merry voices and boundless laughter of a people who did not live in fear, and it was that realisation that formed his response.

“Frerin would have been proud to see what you have achieved here,” he said. “He only ever wanted to see our people safe.”

“I have done my best.” Northri acknowledged his words with a slight dip of his head. “It is not Erebor by any means, but it is home now, and we are content here. But what of you, Thorin? My scouts tell me you did not come to Ered Mithrin alone. It will no doubt be a grand homecoming for Erebor’s people, long overdue.”

“That remains to be seen,” Thorin answered, feeling suddenly weary. “Smaug may be dead, but there are still serpents enough beneath that mountain to make it dangerous.”

“I see.” Setting his goblet down, Northri pushed both it and his empty plate away. “All is not well, then?”

“No, it is not.” A bitter admittance, but he would not mask the truth. “Though, if it is any comfort, I doubt those troubles will reach you here.”

“Thorin,” Northri retorted, gravely serious. “Perhaps you did not understand my words earlier, or perhaps you simply did not listen, so I will say them again. You are our  _king_ , crowned or not, and we are not about to turn our backs as you march into danger a second time. So.” Propping his arms on the table, the Lord of Nordinbad leant forward, lending determination to already earnest words. “Tell me, what can I do to help?”

 

 **~** **The** **Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

“Where are we going?”

More bemused than concerned, Kíli addressed the question to his brother’s back, trailing at Fíli’s heels as he had been commanded. Of course, that particular order had only come after his brother pulled a miraculous disappearing act the moment dinner was finished. How he managed to move so swiftly and stealthily was beyond Kíli, but his apparent skill in doing so had meant Kíli was left alone with Runa and Dís, a position that, whilst not deadly, he had been glad to be rescued from.

“You will see,” Fíli replied serenely, and Kíli did not need to see his brother’s face to know there was a grin residing there. Rolling his eyes, he quickened his pace a beat until he drew level with his sibling.

“We've only been here a few hours. It's too soon to have found a secret chamber full of adventure.”

“Is it?” 

Stopping beside a low arch, Fíli gave him a look that had him suddenly wondering if he should have been a little less trusting. Before he could say another word, however, Fíli had ducked beneath the arch, leaving Kili with no choice but to follow him into the room beyond. Crossing the threshold he found himself standing in a long, low room, well lit by a row of torches placed at even intervals along the longest two of its four walls, which naturally drew one's eye to what lay at the chamber's other end.

He had never stood on a dwarvish range before, but that did not stop him from recognising it, and, stomach clenching, he turned to his brother. “Fíli, I _can't_.”

“I know,” Fíli answered gently. “That's why Nordri is here.”

Kíli had not even noticed the blond dwarf working quietly at the bench pressed against the wall beside him. Lifting his head at the sound of his name, Nordri came forward with a slightly nervous smile.

“Prince Fíli said you couldn't shoot anymore,” he said. “And, well, we thought this might help.” 

Taken aback, Kíli simply stared at the crossbow in Nordri's raised hands. He had seen Nordri use it before, of course, when he had prevented Bolg from snapping Kíli’s neck, and others amongst Northri’s forces had been armed with the same. But, for some reason, the thought had never occurred to him to use the weapon himself.

“Grandfather said that Prince Frerin used to be a master with one of these.” Breaking the silence, Nordri moved to pick up a bolt, setting it in place with practiced movements. “He made his own, and others. This one.” He handed it over to Kíli for closer inspection, revealing the elaborate carvings that had been worked with precision into the smooth wood, the crest of Durin clearly visible amongst the other symbols. “Was a gift to my father, which he passed on to me when I came of age. I would like you to have it.”

That brought Kíli's head up in a rush as he protested. “I can't take this!”

“Of course you can.” Nordri grinned. “I am giving it to you as a symbol of the friendship between our houses. You can hardly say no. Besides, it already saved your life once, who wouldn't want to keep such a weapon at hand?”

“I rather think it was you, not the bow, that did the saving.” Smiling, though it was a somewhat watery gesture, Kíli ran a finger down the elaborate grooves, carved years before by the uncle he had never met. “Thank you,” he said, uncaring that his voice was little more than a breaking whisper. “Truly, I can't...”

“It was Prince Fíli's idea.” Looking a little uncomfortable at Kíli's sincere gratitude, Nordri deflected his thanks. “I just helped.”

Expectantly, Kíli turned to his brother, who merely shrugged. 

“You were missing it,” he said, as though that explained everything. “I though this might be a touch closer than throwing knives, and safer for Uncle.”

Without words enough to express his thoughts, Kíli carefully set the crossbow down before turning and flinging himself at his brother. Fíli staggered slightly, but managed to keep his balance, letting his cane clatter to the floor so he could return Kíli's fierce embrace.

“You haven't even tried shooting it yet,” he teased laughingly. “You might be awful.”

“I don't care.” And he didn't, at all, because that wasn't what mattered here. “Thank you, Fíli. I... _Thank you_.”

“Well, _I_ care, you idiot.” Releasing his hold so he could ruffle Kíli's hair, Fíli ignored the indignant look the gesture earned him. “I want to be certain you won't shoot _me_  the next time you're swooping in to save the day.”

Kíli snorted, wiping at his damp eyes as he turned to retrieve his new weapon. Hefting its weight in his hands for a moment he studied it from all angles, eyes seeking and noting all the little mechanisms that made up the whole masterpiece. Eagerly, then, excitement overwhelming trepidation, he lifted his gaze to Nordri.

“Teach me?”

“Of course, my prince.” Picking a crossbow of his own off the bench, Nordri stepped forward. “Gladly.”


	41. The Night Before the Road

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT IV**

**-The Long Road Home-**

**Chapter 41**

**_ The Night Before the Road _ **

The velvet darkness of the night sky stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, a bejeweled blanket, spread across a land that glowed argent under the moon. The sheer rock faces of the ravine caught that light, veins of ice turned to silver, stretching down until they vanished into the shadows that the light could not breach. Huddled beneath the snow-laden pavilion that crowned Nordinbad’s highest reaches, his back to one of its carven pillars, Fíli breathed in the crisp mountain air, flexing his fingers and trying to convince his rigid muscles to relax. Somewhere below him he could hear the shuffling steps of a night sentry, for even here, in a realm of peace and safety, they knew better than to trust the night. Shadows hid too many horrors to ever go unwatched, and Fíli understood now why his father had feared them.

Sighing, he let his head fall back against the pillar, one hand slipping inside his coat pocket to close about the reassuring bulk of his knife. He hardly expected to be set upon up here, with an entire citadel and its people between him and anyone who might mean him harm, but the familiar blade was still a comfort. His father’s only means of protecting him, because a single arrow had destroyed everything else.

Eyes drawn back to the midnight veil, he caught himself wondering how many nights Nali had spent staring at the same sky after winning his freedom. It was one of the clearest memories he had of his father, sitting on the stone step outside their house, one of Nali’s arms wrapped around his slight shoulders, whilst he used his other hand to point at the stars as he named them, one by one. He’d known them all, titles memorised like the names of old friends, and Fíli no longer wondered why. If he’d spent as many years of his life labouring in the vilest depths of the earth as Nali had he was certain he would have loved the sky just as fiercely, and it was no accident that it was the stars he had turned to for comfort tonight.

Though, if he was honest with himself, he probably would have drawn more comfort from an arm about his shoulders that was solider than that which memory could provide.

“Fíli?”

Instinct had him stiffening, hand closing about his knife hilt, but recognition loosened it again a bare second later. He had known Kíli would follow, and did not hesitate to answer, “Up here.”

The sound of boots scuffing on stone followed, and then his brother came into view, dark eyes settling on Fíli with worry he forced himself not to bristle at. Kíli had a right to his concern, after the way he had fled without explanation, and he had already given his word he would not lie to his brother about this. Instead he held his tongue as Kíli crossed the distance between them and seated himself opposite his elder, back to a pillar of his own, knees drawn up to his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask a single question, simply settled into place and turned his gaze outwards, studying the ragged line of the mountains on the horizon with a pensive expression on his face.

Inwardly, Fíli thought that he would have preferred an interrogation to this expectant silence, gentle or not. A question asked meant the answer expected was clear. He only had to respond to whatever concerns were voiced, not delve into his own seething thoughts and try to explain them when he didn’t even understand them fully himself. The silence stretched on, however, and Kíli did not break it, so he was forced to swallow his reservations and speak what was on his mind.

“It was the dark,” he blurted, then snapped his jaw shut as though it had betrayed him. Too late, because Kíli’s dark eyes had already affixed themselves to his face, soft with worry and the earnest desire to help, and he couldn’t leave it at that.

“I thought I was alright.”

And he had been, in the packed hall surrounded by his kin, hedged in so that it was impossible to feel anything but safe. He’d been happy, content, able to offer Thorin a smile when his uncle’s expression betrayed the troubled thoughts lurking behind his eyes.

“But then…”

He didn’t know how to explain it. The weight of the stone all around him, the walls closing in, the shadows cast by torchlight, making him flinch at every imagined movement he saw out of the corner of his eye. There had been nothing there, he knew that, but that had not stopped the terror swelling in his chest, a panic that had driven him up here, to where the clean air and gentle moonlight beat all spectres back to the corner they had crawled from.

“I couldn’t stand it.” Huffing a mirthless laugh, he ran his free hand through his hair, tugging absently at his braids. “I don’t know why I was so worried about being able to fight properly. Defending Erebor isn’t going to be a problem if I can’t even bring myself to _live_ in it.”

Face pinched into a troubled frown, Kíli demurred quietly, “It might get better.”

“It might not.” And what then? What good was he as an heir to an underground kingdom if he could not bear being underground? The answer to that was none at all, he knew. It was a crushing thought, and the devastation it wrought sounded in his next words despite his best efforts to rein it in. “What if it doesn’t?”

Kíli did not answer at once, sitting with a slightly helpless expression on his face, then something flashed through his eyes, resolve settled in its wake, and his brother scrambled to his feet.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to help Fíli stand. “I want to show you something.”

Dubiously, Fíli allowed himself to be tugged upright, spending that extra moment he had never needed before to get his balance. Once certain he would not land flat on his face the moment he moved his feet he followed Kíli across the pavilion to the steps that would take them both down below. At the top of the stairs the panic returned, a dull echo of its former self, but still present, and he froze a moment, drawing in a deep breath and closing his hand about his cane until the wood bit into his palm.

“Fi?”

Kíli’s soft enquiry wrenched his stare away from the dark steps and up to his brother’s face, his panic dissolving a little. “I’m coming.”

Putting one hand against the wall to steady himself he began the laborious process of descending a set of stairs that had seemed much less numerous when he was climbing them in a blind rush. He was breathless by the time he made it to the bottom, which meant he could not protest when his sibling seized his arm and began to steer him through the halls of Nordinbad, clearly with a destination in mind. After several turns, and a number of corridors he didn’t recognise, he decided silence was perhaps not the best approach to his brother’s antics, and voiced his doubts.

“Kíli, where… _oh_.” He let the words trail away, awestruck, moving forward without realising it as his eyes roved around his new surroundings.

He was standing on a bridge in the centre of a massive cavern that stretched to either side as far as the eye could see, its great expanse proving a home for an underground lake whose waters were a deep, deep blue. At least, for the most part. Dotted here and there, with a pattern only nature could have devised, were shafts that he realised must run right to the surface, channelling moonlight down to glimmer on the water’s surface. Waterfalls escaped through cracks in the walls, sending ripples and splashes out across what would otherwise have been tranquil waters, and even the stone itself, walls and ceiling alike, was shaped in stunning sculptures. Not a single torch adorned the walls of the cavern, but it was filled with light regardless, a gentle glow, that shifted and swayed in time to the lake’s pulse.

There were no shadows here, and he could suddenly breathe again.

“The Lake of Azan-Zâram.” Kíli, standing at his elbow, spoke with the quiet reverence such beauty deserved. “Nordinbad’s crowning glory.”

Because this was what Northri’s people called treasure. Not gold, they had suffered too much at the hands of its darker side to ever see it as anything but a necessary evil, but a simpler kind of riches. The sense of wonder brought on by nature’s most vivid artwork, the joy of time spent together with one’s kin, and the peace that could only be found in a place of true safety.

“It’s beautiful,” he said aloud, and meant it, moving closer so he could peer down at his reflection in the near luminescent waters.

“All of it is,” Kíli answered, coming to join him, propping his elbows on the side of the bridge and resting his chin in his hands. “This isn’t Gundabad, and neither will Erebor be, not when we’ve taken it back. It will be home, and there will be shadows, but there’s always light to be found somewhere.”

Turning his head slowly, Fíli pinned his brother with a disbelieving glance that morphed into a knowing one. “You read that in a book, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” Kíli grinned, that full smile that lit up his whole face, and Fíli couldn’t help but smile back. “But you can’t prove it.”

Shaking his head in affectionate amusement, Fíli turned back to the rippling lake, tracing the patterns of silver light that flecked its surface as he sobered slightly. “I have a feeling that it won’t be that simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Kíli told him. “It just has to be possible. Like taking back a mountain from a dragon, or saving you and Thorin from an orc-infested stronghold.”

Thoughtfully, he wondered if others in Middle Earth had so many examples of impossible things that could now be listed under ‘possible’ simply because they had been accomplished without invoking the certain death they should have. Then he decided it did not matter, and he did not really want to think too much about how they should have all been dead thrice over by now. “This is different, though.”

“You’re right.” Kíli grimaced. “I can’t just shoot an arrow at this.”

“You could,” Fíli corrected him blandly. “But I doubt very much that it would help… I miss Ered Luin.”

He knew, without needing to say more, that Kíli would understand. He was not speaking only of their home there, the only home they had ever known, but of the lives that had been theirs before they joined Thorin on his quest. It had been a simpler existence, riddled with the trivial concerns that came day-by-day, but free of the darkness and uncertainty that seemed as much a part of Erebor as its wealth. That, he thought, was what he missed most of all. The freedom. The certainty. The peace. All things lost in the bid to reclaim their homeland, some beyond anyone’s power to reclaim.

“It was home,” was his brother’s response.

Fíli let out a long, low breath. “But not anymore.”

“No,” Kíli agreed, mirth gone. “Not anymore.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The candles spread across the table were burning low by the time Thorin had finished explaining all that he could of their present trials to Northri and his companions. Without a word, Thilde rose to her feet and began replacing them one by one, whilst at the same time Northri shoved his chair back and shot upright, pacing back and forth across the floor.

“Treachery…” He huffed the word, and, whilst it was clear to see in his face that he was unsettled, anger was by far the more predominant emotion. “Despicable. What dwarf worthy of the name would even entertain such an idea? Honourless curs!” Slamming a fist down on the table to vent some of his fury, Northri then pinned Thorin with a searing glance, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “And _you_ thought I was just going to sit back and let you walk into _that_ alone?”

“To give Thorin his due, Northri, it is not as though help has been overly forthcoming in the past,” Runa rebuked her husband. “There comes a time when one stops expecting it to be offered.”

“Well, it’s being offered now.” Reining himself back in, the Lord of Nordinbad returned to the seat he had sprung from moments before. “What is it these villains want, exactly? Power? Wealth? A good crack over the head with Hagan’s hammer?”

“So far as we are aware, the end of Durin’s line and control over Erebor,” Balin answered grimly. “At least, that is what Azog desired, and, if Lord Elrond is right in his suspicions, then Valin and his ilk serve the same master. The true danger lies in the fact they may well be without direction right now. Sauron was driven back into hiding at Dol Guldur, but some of his pieces are still set on the board.”

“I believe Valin’s purpose at the Council in Ered Luin was to undermine any attempt to garner aid from any of the other clans,” Thorin added. “That may well have been all he was meant to do. We were never expected to reach Erebor, much less succeed in taking it. They will have had to adjust whatever scheme was in place to work around what did not occur as planned.”

“Which is most likely why they did not outright murder Prince Kíli whilst he was vulnerable,” Galar, Northri’s forthright steward, said, paying no heed to the way Dís flinched and paled at his words. “They were not yet certain whether they could do away with an heir who might serve well as a mouldable figurehead.”

“And then Kíli vanished,” Dwalin grunted. “And Dain took the throne.”

“Putting an established leader with strong ties to the other clan heads in place,” Northri surmised. “Clearly not something Valin would find pleasing.”

“So then the rumours.” Balin nodded. “To undermine his position. It wouldn’t take much, not with all the evil that mountain has wrought. They needed only to sow a seed of doubt.”

“And we are certain Dain is innocent in this?” Galar queried, face pressed into a definite scowl. “Blind to the treachery in his own court?”

“Valin has played a careful hand until now,” Thorin replied slowly, choosing his words with care. “If he was forced to reveal it, I do not think he would do so without ensuring he had safeguards in place. He has been Dain’s advisor this past century. He will know every weakness available to exploit.”

“So you believe Dain a prisoner within his own kingdom?” Gorin sought clarity, and Thorin wondered if he was expected to be able to provide it.

“We do not know,” Dís spoke before he could. “That is why it is imperative that I be able to speak with him. Knowing where Dain stands in all this will dictate how we respond.”

“It seems an incredible risk to me,” Runa said, troubled. “Entering the Mountain with no surety of what you will find inside it. Is there no other way to uncover the answers you seek?”

“Not anymore.” Regretfully, Balin shook his head. “Too much has been kept behind Erebor’s walls. If we were able to make contact with the other members of the Company, perhaps, but I think it is safe to say that, wherever they may be, they are not at liberty to send us news.”

“Do you think they still live?” Gorin asked.

“That is what we hope,” Balin answered, in a tone that clearly said it was a reserved hope on his part. “There is a chance they are imprisoned in Erebor. That is why Master Baggins shall accompany us.” He nodded his head in their attentive Burglar’s direction. “He shall investigate that side of things whilst Dwalin and I wait for Dís to speak with Dain. He is the only one of us who is not likely to get caught.”

“Will it not look strange?” Runa wondered. “Just the two of you as an escort when Dís has brought her whole people from Ered Luin?”

“We do not want anyone else within the Mountain until we know where we stand,” Thorin said firmly. “There are few warriors amongst our people, and it is too great a risk.”

“What if I were to go?” Gorin suggested. “I could travel with the caravan and some of father’s warriors, dressed as citizens of Ered Luin, and go with Lady Dís when she enters the mountain. It might afford us a chance to speak with Dain’s people without arousing suspicion.”

“A fine idea, Gorin,” Northri spoke up in what was a transparent effort to overrule any protests Thorin might voice. “And I insist you take Bain along too, Thorin. He has an uncanny pair of eyes on him that may serve you well.”

“But that still leaves Dís alone with Dain,” Runa fretted, clearly unhappy with the idea. “It is not safe, or wise, I think.”

Thorin glanced at his sister, who pressed her lips together in a thin line and shook her head in a command he promptly ignored. “Tyrth’s suggestion does have merit. I would feel better if I knew you were not alone.”

“I am not willing to risk it, Thorin.” Dís shook her head. “No.”

“It is not your decision to make,” he reminded her gently. “Kíli must decide whether it is right for him to go with you or not.”

“And when have either of my sons been known to make wise decisions?” she retorted. “Don’t _smile_. It is not amusing!”

“Wise or not, the choice is theirs to make.” Ignoring her displeasure, Thorin pressed the point. “You cannot deny them that, or protect them from it. It is far too late to even attempt to do so.”

There was no sense of victory in seeing the fire in her eyes’ fade a little, resignation sweeping across her face as her shoulders slumped slightly and she let the back of her chair bear her weight. “Very well, then. Somebody had best fetch them from wherever they’ve run off to.”

“They were with Nordri, I believe,” Gorin began, then trailed off as the door to the room burst open and the aforementioned dwarf peered around its interior hopefully.

“Nordri,” Runa greeted him cheerfully. “Did you forget how to knock?”

“Sorry, grandmother.” Flushing slightly, the young dwarf lord shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot. “I was looking for Fíli and Kíli.”

“Were they not with you?” Gorin’s brow furrowed.

“They were.” Nordri nodded. “But then Prince Fíli slipped away, and Prince Kíli followed him because he was worried and I… I don’t know where they went.”

Alarmed, Thorin exchanged a glance with his sister. Fíli had not faltered again since his upset during the mounting crossing, at least, not since Kíli put his foot down and insisted his brother accept his help, but neither of them were under any sort of illusion that that meant his troubles were past. One did not so easily brush aside such lingering memories, and Thorin was on his feet before Nordri had even finished speaking.

“I will find them,” he said simply. “They cannot have gone far.”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

 Kíli awoke to the sound of running water and a face full of his brother's golden hair. Slightly confused by their strange sleeping arrangements, he pushed himself up off Fili’s shoulder, only to freeze as a heavy fabric that had most certainly _not_ been there the night before slid off his shoulders. Eyes flashing down to the dark blue cloak that had been spread across both himself and his brother, he traced the silver threads that wove their way around the edge in a pattern he knew off by heart, before finally lifting his gaze to meet his uncle’s own amused expression.

“Northri offered us rooms,” he said softly, in deference to their still sleeping companion. “But as you seemed quite comfortable where you were I declined.”

“This stone is rather comfy.”

Patting the side of the bridge, which wasn’t as smooth as it had looked when he first sat down and leant his back against it, Kíli slipped out from under Thorin’s cloak and scrambled to his feet. It wasn’t until he was standing that he recognized the odd expression on Thorin’s face. A sadness that was at odds with the mirth still lingering there.

“Uncle? Is something wrong?”

“Frerin made this,” Thorin said by way of an answer, and Kíli belatedly realised that his uncle was holding in his hands the crossbow that had been clipped to his belt when he drifted off on Fíli’s shoulder. He was glad Thorin had retrieved it, else he would surely have had a sore hip to match the portion of his back that did not appreciate the protruding stone that had been trying to bury itself there all night.

“Yes.” It hadn’t been a question, but he felt compelled to answer it anyway, further elaborating, “Nordri said it was a gift for Gorin.”

“I don’t doubt that it was.” Thorin nodded, fingers absently tracing the delicate etchings inlaid in the handle as he spoke almost to himself. “He was always making things. Toys for the children. Weapons for those who were old enough to learn how to use them. Small things we had taken for granted in our own youth, that he could not bear to see others go without.” Blinking sharply, he refocused on the present, lowering the crossbow to his lap as he looked directly at his nephew. “Nordri gave it to you?”

“He said it was a token of the friendship between our two houses.” A cunning trick, really, one had to give Nordri credit. “Though, I’m fairly certain that was just a way to make sure I did not say no.”

Tilting his head towards Kíli’s damaged shoulder, Thorin said, “Does it work?”

“It is strange, and different, and not what I’m used to.” He shrugged, then grinned. “But it works.”

Thorin nodded without saying a word, and Kíli could not guess at the thoughts behind his expression. His uncle did not share them, either, handing the beautifully fashioned weapon back to him and neatly changing the subject. “Fíli?”

He hesitated, using the act of reattaching the crossbow to his belt as a means of buying time. He hadn’t thought to ask Fíli whether or not he was permitted to share what they spoke of with Thorin, and he certainly didn’t want to betray his confidences. Then again, Fíli knew full well that his brother could never keep a secret from their uncle for long.

“It was being underground,” he confessed quietly, tugging absently at the cable holding his new acquisition in place. “It brought back bad memories.”

Thorin closed his eyes briefly, and Kíli inwardly wondered how many of those same memories were playing out behind his sealed lids. He opened them a moment later, his gaze drifting to Fíli’s slumbering form, then up and away to the chamber they currently inhabited. “The lake was your idea, then?”

“It was nothing like Gundabad, so I thought…”

“Did it help?”

He opened his mouth, only for Fíli’s sleep heavy voice to answer in his place. “Yes, it helped, although it is exceedingly rude to sit here discussing me as though I do not exist. You might at least have woken me first.” Disentangling himself from Thorin’s cloak, he pushed his tousled braids out of his face so he could affix them both with a disapproving glare, the affect of which was somewhat ruined by his next words. “Now, where’s breakfast?”

 

**~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Despite the heaviness that had lain upon them all when they first climbed the Ered Mithrin, they departed from Nordinbad in higher spirits than Fíli had known since they bade farewell to the twins at the foot of the Misty Mountains all those days ago. Northri was sending ten of his finest men with his son at their helm to act as Dís’ escort when she entered the mountain, with the promise of more should they be required. Nordri was horribly disappointed that this was not an expedition in which he would be allowed to take part, and doing a poor job of hiding it as he chattered with Kíli, offering a few final pointers on how best to utilise his new weapon. Runa, for her part, insisted on embracing them all, even Bilbo, eliciting individual promises from each and every one of them to be careful, then regretfully proclaiming that none of them actually knew what that meant. It was the kind of parting one held onto as a fond memory, only slightly dimmed by the conversation Fíli overheard between Thorin and Gorin as they started their descent.

“My father would have sent more warriors, had you allowed him to,” the Nordinbad dwarf stated curiously. “Why did you turn him down?”

“Enough blood has been spilt over Erebor already,” came Thorin’s subdued response. “I would avoid any further violence, if I could.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Then it will not make any difference whether Northri sends me ten warriors or a hundred. Dain will still outnumber us.”

Gorin let the matter lie after that, but Fíli could not so easily set it aside, and he kept turning it over and over in his mind as he walked. Had it not been for the army of orcs showing up on their doorsteps, dwarves, elves, and men would have come to blows because of their disagreement over the mountain’s treasure. The Free Peoples of Middle Earth, fighting amongst themselves over a few trinkets. It would have been a terrible waste of life, a black mark in history that could never be erased, but this somehow struck him as worse. If it came to bloodshed, if Dain stood against them, Durin’s Folk would be slaying their own, and there would be no washing away the horror of that. It gnawed at him, a thought he could not dislodge, and his preoccupation was such that he did not realise they had reached their destination until Tyrth’s gruff voice drew him back to the present.

“It’s about time you showed up,” the grizzled miner complained, a glare seared into his brow. “We’ve got a visitor. Claims he knows you, though I swear he’s nothing more than a right nuisance.”

Brushing past his grumbling councillor, Thorin moved further into the camp. Flashing a curious glance at Kíli, who simply shrugged, Fíli followed, and arrived just in time to overhear the first exchange of words.

“ _You_.” There was only one person in all of Middle Earth who could draw that particular tone of acute exasperation from Thorin’s lips, and it was a grin Fíli shared with his brother this time as together they quickened their pace to round the wagon obstructing their view. “What in Durin’s name are you doing here?”

“Why.” Eyes twinkling, pipe smoking, and hat pointing in that same, lopsided manner as Fíli would know anywhere, Gandalf the Grey responded with all the cheerful indifference a wizard could muster. “I’m here to help, of course.”

 


	42. Moments on the Overlook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Okay, so this chapter was a monster. To write, to read, and because of its sheer bloody length. I'm washing my hands of the thing now, so you guys can have it. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, Toastytoastie over on tumblr has done some amazing fanart for this story (and just for dwarves in general. You can find them at http://toastytoastie.tumblr.com/, just be aware some of the art is probably R rated. XD
> 
> Read and enjoy,
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

**Chapter 42  
**

**_ Moments on the Overlook _ **

 

There was no such thing as an uneventful trip.

That was something any aspiring traveler learned swiftly enough, and it was a truth Thorin had known long before the Quest to Erebor. That journey which had, in the way only a rare few could, done its very best to teach the less wise members of his Company the many ways in which things could go wrong. Thankfully, the steady march from Nordinbad to the slopes of Erebor had been filled with only the more tedious tribulations of lengthy travel, those which invoked frustration and aroused tempers, but did not invite peril. It made for a pleasant change, and one he attributed in large part to the decision to circumvent Mirkwood, sparing his people any exposure to the dangers of the forest, and the even more unwelcome presence of its inhabitants. 

Deviating around Mirkwood had cost them time, a great deal of it, but he considered it a worthy sacrifice, standing now on the Overlook above Dale, his presence there hidden by the night’s embrace. Below him the mannish city spread to fill a third of the valley floor, lights shining forth from the watchtowers and within the city itself. Beyond it burning braziers marked Erebor's front gates, two kingdoms restored, together painting a picture of peace and tranquility that hinted at none of the discord rumbling beneath the mountain, and remained just as silent a witness to the tragedies that had occurred on this same ground in the past.

But Thorin did not need a witness to remember those tragedies. He had lived them. Survived them. _Caused_ them. It took only a blink of his eyes to transform the land between Dale and Erebor into a battlefield, swarming with the enemy, thick with the bodies of his fallen kin. He had only to close them to see the flames that had decimated two kingdoms and ended countless lives, images burned into his mind. This was where it had all begun, and so it was here that it would also end, in this place he knew so well and yet not at all. The mountain had been so many things to him over the years, all of them alike, none quite the same, yet now… now he did not know it, ground once sturdy shifting beneath his feet as his mind and heart wavered and doubt plagued him like an old friend.

There had been a time, he knew, when Erebor had not been such a constant source of anguish to him. Once, the Lonely Mountain had been home. The land of his birth, the realm he was one day destined to rule. He’d spent his childhood there, raised in wealth and splendour, and back then he had never thought to consider a life beyond that which was already carved out for him. Erebor had been a rock, as immovable and unchanging as the King who ruled it, and he had had no reason to doubt it would continue to be so.

Until Smaug came, and the life he had known vanished in a cloud of smoke and ash.

After the dragon, Erebor had become a bitter memory. A loss, not as deep as some of those which carved their mark in angry scars across his heart, but a wound nonetheless, and one that never truly healed. How could it, when he had nothing to replace its absence with? His people were destitute, homeless, and he had nothing to offer them. He was forced to face them day after day with empty hands, because all that had once been his had been ripped from his grasp by fire and death borne on a hurricane.

Moria, of course, had changed everything, past, present, and future. When Thror fell, when Thráin vanished, when his brother was thrown at his feet carved like a bloody puppet, Erebor's loss had spelt their doom. Without it, he had not been able to see a future for his people. Not after all they had endured since Smaug drove them from its halls. He had been all but certain that fortune would continue to turn against them, until those who had once been the greatest of Durin’s Folk dwindled and diminished.

It had taken Ered Luin and a young dwarf who carried a darkness far deeper than his own – who _defied_ it – to make him see things anew. Together, Nali and Dís had forced him to focus on the present, on what was now within his grasp, instead of all that had slipped through his fingers. And he had done so, relegating Erebor to a wistful memory, tentatively gathering up the threadbare strands of a hope he had all but abandoned, and daring to believe, one last time. The mountain had still lurked at the back of his mind, a tantalizing prize just beyond ready reach, but he had learnt to ignore it in the face of the future the Blue Mountains had promised.

And then Nali died. Ered Luin betrayed the faith he had placed in it, and what had been a memory became a haunting spectre; the home that should have spared them all this pain, all this loss, all this _suffering_. He had lived in Ered Luin, had ruled there, but always Erebor had lingered on his mind, every moment of the present tainted by the past. By what ifs. By could-have-beens. Erebor, he had thought, would be the salvation of Durin’s Folk. Erebor would grant them the safety they had not been able to find anywhere else in Middle Earth. Erebor would be _home_ , as no other place could.

What a pretty fantasy that had been, clung to for years, and swiftly dispelled, so that it was a very different set of thoughts that accompanied his view of the Lonely Mountain on this night. Standing as a still shadow, he stared across the shrouded distance, eyes alighting on the braziers burning brightly to either side of the gates, mind seeing naught but the past. The memories were still in his mind’s eye. The fear that had shone on the face of one nephew, and the betrayal that had burned in the eyes of the other as the home he had raised to heights of greatness proved itself to be nothing more than another trap. A snare set to destroy all that he loved with no other hand but his own.

Absently, mind wandering, he flexed his sword hand, and deliberately did not start when the action drew an unexpected response.

“It’s not the same, is it?” Bilbo spoke quietly, moving to join him on the high ground. “The Mountain. The quest. Any of it.”

“No, Master Baggins.” There was no other answer he could give to that. “It is not.”

Bilbo hummed quietly, exhaling in what was not quite a sigh as he tucked his hands into his waistcoat pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels slightly. “Are you alright?”

Thorin closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the crisp, mountain air, as he tried to find a response that might at least satisfy one of them. In the end he settled upon honesty, because the fears he had held close to his chest in the past had been those which came true; those that rose from the black depths and tried to swallow him whole.

“That,” he said solemnly after a long moment of silence, moving his hand in an expansive gesture. “That is the valley where I would have waged a war no matter the odds.”

His hand shifted, and his words followed.

“Those are the gates I would have kept closed against my kin, weighing the value of gold to be greater than the value of their lives. And there…”

He hesitated, clenching his raised hand in a fist.

“There is the wall upon which I would have spilled my nephew’s blood, and thought not to grieve until after the deed was done.” Exhaling slowly, he lowered his arm and turned to face the hobbit’s sombre gaze. “The truth is I am afraid, Bilbo. I am afraid that whatever choice I make will not matter in the end, for it will be taken from me, as it was the last time I set foot within that mountain.”

Bilbo absorbed his confession in silence, his face twisting in what was now a familiar myriad of expressions, his thoughts playing out for the world to see, even if no one could make sense of them.

“I think,” he began slowly. “I think you would be a fool _not_ to be afraid. There’s an enemy beneath that mountain, and it doesn’t matter if it’s a dragon, or a traitor, or the treasure itself. It’s there, and we’ve got to face it, without knowing whether or not we have any chance of winning. But… But I also think you’re looking at this wrong. You’re…” Stopping, Bilbo waved his hands in a slightly erratic gesture as he tried to make them speak the words he could not find. “It’s not just you, this choice. It’s all of us. We know what to watch for now. We know… We won’t let it happen again.”

“Do you swear it?”

Bilbo started, his head snapping around to pin Thorin with a quizzical look. “Do I swear what?”

There was a part of him, formed of pride and all that went with it, that wanted to let the matter rest there. He pushed it aside, for there were greater things at stake here than his pride, and he had come too close to losing them both to risk them again. 

“That you will stop me, Bilbo," he said instead, voice rawer than he had meant it to be. “If you need to. If it comes to that…”

Bilbo’s lips thinned into a narrow line, his brow furrowing as he glanced away, robbing Thorin of the ability to read his expression. Impatient, he nevertheless forced himself to await his friend’s answer without pushing, well aware that he would have no right to protest if Bilbo refused. In truth he probably should not have even asked. It was an unfair burden to hoist upon the hobbit’s shoulders, a duty that should have fallen to Dwalin and Balin, or Dís, even. But it was Bilbo alone he trusted to see through what might dazzle other eyes, just as he had before, and Bilbo he trusted not to stand by if what he saw called for action.

“It won’t come to that,” the Company's burglar said suddenly, shattering Thorin's reverie as he turned back about to face the dwarf. “It _won’t_ , Thorin, you should know that I believe that. But… If it helps, I give you my word that I will quite happily summon Dís and her frying pan if necessary.”

The situation did not call for mirth, but he smiled anyway, reaching out to clasp the halfling’s shoulder in a gesture of solemn gratitude. “You are a good friend, Master Baggins. I am sorry that your loyalty has not always led you to a fitting reward.”

“A fitting reward would be to see this story end the way I want it to.” Bilbo shrugged, though there was a sharp edge to his words. “I’m a hobbit, Thorin. We don’t much care for tragedies.”

“Then we shall make sure it isn’t one.” Squeezing the Shireling’s shoulder, he let his hand fall away,  straightening as he shook off his mantle of fears and doubts and resumed the role of the leader he needed to  be. Both for the sake of those who now dwelt in Erebor, and for those on the hillside behind him, where the caravan had laid camp hours before, working by the meagre light of the setting sun. “That is what is most important here.”

“Let's hope Dain feels the same way,” Bilbo murmured, turning away from the silhouette of Erebor's gates. 

“He will.” He could not be certain of that. None of them could, but right now the alternative was too dire to face. “He must, for all our sakes.”

 

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

 

The Ered Luin Fili had been raised in had never been a grand kingdom. Whatever glory the Blue Mountains had once held claim to had been lost at the end of the First Age, when Belegost and Nogrod had fallen from the height of their power to the lowest depths corruption, betrayal, and the harsh edge of war could delve. That greatness had never been reclaimed, and to the people who lived there now it was nothing more than a home, the source of their livelihoods and the provider of a comfortable existence. To the Seven it was even less; the sad remnants of a fallen kingdom and the domain of a King in Exile, not a place they chose to visit unless duty demanded their presence.

Fíli did not know if it was that isolation from the other kingdoms that had spared him and his brother from the more superfluous expectations that might be pressed upon one of royal birth, or whether the lack of formal trappings had arisen more from Thorin’s own experiences as a leader. Having spent decades toiling alongside his people, their Uncle had long since forsaken any idea of a King standing apart from those he governed, and had instilled the same sort of blunt practicality in his nephews. Fíli had been raised to rule from beside his people, not above them, which made watching his mother fit his brother with all the finery their rank should have been accompanied by a decidedly surreal experience.

Oblivious to his thoughts, and deliberately ignoring the tension that had Kíli practically vibrating beneath her hands, Dís slid the last hook home, pulling the gold embroidered, black edges of the archer’s tunic together. Smoothing her hands across the shoulders of its wearer, she pressed the creases from the midnight blue material, straightened the high collar, and then moved to tighten the vambraces that covered the cuffs of the shade lighter shirt beneath. The twisting veins of silver thread interwoven in the paler fabric flashed as the motion exposed them to the lantern light and, with a satisfied nod, Dís turned away to lift the cloak she had set aside, swinging it across her youngest son’s shoulders and fastening it by a clasp that had been carefully engraved with the symbol of Durin’s eldest line. Like the clothes it covered, the grey material was not plain, trimmed in black with the royal symbol of twin raven heads adorning the shoulders, one on either side of the buckle. 

“There.” Smiling, Dís let her hands rest on Kíli’s shoulders, her eyes shimmering. “You look magnificent.”

She wasn’t wrong, Fíli mused, studying the fruit of his mother’s many hours of labour with a keen eye. Strange though it may be to see his brother dressed in full royal regalia, he could not deny that it lent a sort of nobility to the archer’s bearing. Their mother had even gone so far as to braid her youngest child’s unruly hair in the same style as Fíli’s own, decorated by the clasps his elder sibling had insisted he wear, though the gesture had done little to alter Kíli’s dim view of the entire affair.

“I feel ridiculous.” Folding his arms across his chest the younger dwarf scowled, doing a fair imitation of Thorin in one of his more dour moods. Biting his lip, Fíli did his best not to laugh, knowing any sign of mirth would only further foul his brother’s temper, and searched instead for words that might offer a little more reassurance.

“I think you look noble,” he offered, earning himself a glare in return as Kíli whipped his head around, the double braids swinging with the movement. Reminded of their presence, he reached up to touch them, only to have his mother slap his hand away.

“If I have to rebraid those again I will tie you up with them,” she threatened. “Don’t think that I won’t.”

Chastened, Kíli dropped his arms back to his side, clenching and unclenching his fists as he took a step back to drop down heavily on their solitary chair, slumped in place, apparently confident that the fabric of the tent around them would hide his sulking from any prying eyes. Not that he was sulking, really. Durin knew his brother was prone to fits of brooding that could last as long as Thorin’s stubborn melancholy, but this was something different. Something Fíli recognized by the flash of unease in Kíli's eyes, and the tremulous expression that came and went between minutes like a flickering candle-flame. It was those signs that betrayed the fact it was not the clothes and braids themselves that had caused his brother's discomfort, but rather what they symbolized; the expectations and responsibilities that came with them.

Kíli had always struggled with the idea of fulfilling his duty as an Heir of Durin, despite the fact the demands of those duties upon him had been far lesser than what was asked of his brother. Where Fíli had learned to fit, to stand on his own two feet, secure in the knowledge of what his bloodlines required him to be, Kíli had always been more like a young dwarfling trying to fill his elder’s armour. Always just that little bit awkward, that little bit uncertain, terrified he would not live up to whatever expectations he imagined were being pressed upon him. It was the cause of his little brother’s distaste for bearing any sign of his rank beyond that which was absolutely necessary, and the reason his current attire was being received with such ill grace.

“I must see to the rest of the preparations.” Casting her youngest a look of fond patience, Dís continued, “And find that Uncle of yours. I swear, he's harder to keep track of then you two were as boys.”

“I'm sure that's not true, ma.” Amused, Fíli made a mild effort to defend their absent King. “We were pretty terrible.”

“True.” Dís paused in a moment of pensive consideration. “Perhaps it is merely the fact he does not appear to have grown out of it that makes it seem worse.” She hesitated a little longer, then shook her head as if to clear it. “No matter. I shall find him.” Turning to Fíli, she added in light tones that disguised the true message conveyed through her expression, “Watch him. I expect every last one of those to be intact when I get back.”

Nodding his understanding, Fíli watched her bustle from the tent before turning back to his discomfited sibling. Kíli would not meet his gaze, focusing on his hands where they were twisting together in his lap and, muffling a sigh, Fíli limped across to perch on the arm of the chair.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “It's alright to be afraid.”

 “I'm not afraid,” Kíli answered, the same tension evident in every taut muscle audible in his voice. “I'm angry.”

Having been greeted with an answer he had not expected, Fíli leant back to try and catch a better view of his brother’s expression. “At ma?”

“At _all_ of this,” Kíli vented, throwing his arms wide, and Fíli could see his face now. Could see the frustration lending a slight jerk to all his brother’s motions and a sharp edge to his words. “It just makes me feel like I'm pretending to be something that I'm not.”

“That's strange.” Letting his cane balance against his knee, Fíli folded his arms across his chest, cupping his elbow in one hand as the other brushed musingly across his chin. “I could have sworn we were brothers, which would naturally make you an Heir of Durin as well.”

“But not _the_ heir.”

“Does that matter?”

“Yes!” The vehemence of the reply took him by surprise, and Kíli was not yet done. “I shouldn’t be the one walking into Erebor like this. That should be _your_ honour. It should be Thorin’s. But they… they’ve taken that away.”  

“And you are taking it back,” he reminded gently. “Besides, I don’t care about any of that, and I’m pretty sure Thorin doesn’t either. There are bound to be plenty of chances to stand on ceremony when Erebor is ours again.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” More subdued, but no less troubled, Kíli tugged absently at his sleeve. “I hate this. All the lies and the deceit and… and the _pretending_. I shouldn’t have to act as though you and Thorin are dead. Last time, it...”

And there it was, Fíli realized, the true reason for his brother’s upset, perhaps even his anger. The last time Kíli had been this close to Erebor he had been surrounded by those who swore his family was gone, facing a future without them, devastating and empty and cold. Fíli had had his own glimpse of what that might feel like, seeing Kíli sprawled at Azog's feet, death inevitable, and the raw horror of that moment would never truly fade. The sense that a piece of himself was about to be cut away, his heart ripped out, torn in two, and shoved back in. Even now the thought of it made his blood run cold, so he could understand why Kíli might not want to revisit such memories. Why walking into Erebor, wearing the symbols of rank that were rightfully Thorin’s and Fíli’s own, would be a hard trial.

“It won't be for long,” he comforted. “And Thorin and I will be right here, waiting for you to get back. It’s not the same, Ki, truly.”

“I know.” Wearily, Kíli rubbed at his eyes, letting his hands slide down his face before daring to meet his sibling’s steady regard. “But it _feels_ like it is.”

“I know.” Considering a moment, he then offered quietly, “Thorin wouldn't blame you for changing your mind, if you wanted to.”

“And let ma go in there alone?” As expected, Kíli's eyes flashed. “No. I'm doing this, I am, I just...”

“You're not trying to wrestle Erebor from Dain's hands, or prove anything that doesn't actually need proving to anyone,” Fíli reminded him. “And, even if you can’t tell anyone else just yet, you know the truth. You know you’re not there to take on a whole kingdom. Your job is just to talk to Dain, and maybe make Valin and anyone else who might be helping him expose themselves. So, really, all you need to do is walk through the front door as though you already rule there and the rest should figure itself out.”

A glimmer of amusement settled over Kíli's features at the thought, and he asked innocently, “Like you did at Bag End?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fíli retorted smoothly. “I always walk like that.”

Kíli choked back a laugh at the thought, and Fíli let himself relax, content in the knowledge Kíli was not so lost in his worries as to _be_ a worry.

 “You'll do fine,” he said aloud, layering his words in a confidence he hoped would solidify Kíli’s own. “And when you're done you can come back and boast to me about how neither Thorin nor myself is needed because you managed it all by yourself.”

“Oh, no.” Kíli shook his head, mischief in his eyes. “Don't think you're getting out of it that easy. If I have to prance around in this finery I'm going to make sure you have to as well.”

“It was worth a shot.” Wryly, he shrugged. “Besides, not all of us are as unhappy as you are about looking respectable.”

“I don't know how you stand it,” Kíli grumbled, lifting his hands. At a look from his brother he defiantly smoothed them over his braids, as though that was all he had intended to do in the first place. “They _pull_ , and this collar is too tight. I'm going to suffocate.”

“You're hopeless.” Smiling, Fíli shook his head. “What are you going to do when we take back the mountain and you are expected to act like proper royalty?”

“ _Not_ act like proper royalty, I expect.” Kíli shrugged. “Like I’ve always done, and probably always will.”

“You don’t think having Erebor back might change that?” Fíli ventured, genuinely curious.

To his surprise, Kíli turned to meet his gaze directly, his dark eyes strangely serious. “No,” he said firmly. “I don’t. Erebor won’t change us. We can’t afford to let it.”

He did not need to say ‘ _like last time_ ’ for Fíli to hear the words, even if he was certain that, spoken or otherwise, they were free of blame. Because Kíli had never blamed them, even when he had been so uncertain around their uncle Fíli had not heard a single word of accusation voiced, and Kíli had not even seemd to realize that Fíli should bear some responsibility for what had happened. The archer had excused him completely, because they were brothers, because even when Fíli had failed to protect him Kíli’s faith in him had never faltered. His sibling’s absolution was not his own, however, and Fíli was still trying to learn how to follow the advice he had given to others, trusting that, eventually, he would find a way to forgive himself for almost letting his brother die.

“There is chance not everyone will accept that.” Shoving his guilt aside, Fíli focused instead on being the voice of reason. “Accept us as we are. They’re used to a different kind of royalty, and they’ll want us to become that.”

“Let them,” Kíli retorted fiercely, with that same streak of stubbornness that had so often led them both into trouble, and which Fíli greeted now with a glow of proud affection. “I’m tired of trying to be what everyone else expects me to be. I’m going to do this my way, and they can’t stop me.”

 

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Thorin watched the assembling company with a vague sense of unease that was only slightly quieted by the fact he had seen the weapons Gorin’s men had so expertly stowed inside their luggage, his hands clasped behind his back and his lips pursed in a thin line of discontent. He understood the necessity of having Dís enter the mountain, understood the reasons that had prompted him to agree to the plan in the first place, but understanding did not mean acceptance, and watching the sister he had tried to protect all her life walk into danger as he was the one left behind was harder to bear than he ever could have imagined. Of course, it had not escaped his attention that this was what he had made Dís endure time and time again over the years, so he was not surprised when she saw straight through his attempt at stoic silence.

“You do not need to look as though we are speaking our final farewells,” she chided gently as she drew near, the rustle of her skirts betraying the fact Kíli was not the only one she had provided for when it came to looking the part of royalty. Unlike her youngest son’s garb, however, the dress she had donned was not new, the pale green fabric familiar to him, so that his eyes were drawn directly to the silver that flashed amongst her golden locks.

She had not braided her hair as she had Kíli’s, taming the tumbling, golden tresses by way of a net woven of silver instead. It lay delicately across the crown of her head, fastened at the back by a painstakingly shaped imitation of a rose, whilst at the front a light, diamond shaped medallion dangled to rest against the middle of her brow, Erebor’s likeness etched into its surface as three, smaller leaves of silver hung below it, each bearing the rune of one of Thráin’s children.

Surprised, Thorin said, “I have not seen you wear that since –”

“The day I was wed,” she finished for him. “When Nali gifted it to me.”

“He would have been proud,” he offered in response. “To see you wear it now.”

“Proud?" Dis gave him a sidelong look. “He would have been insufferable. There would not have been a dwarf within miles that did not know I was wearing his handiwork.”

“That is true.” Smiling, he inclined his head in agreement, recalling all too well his fallen friend's particular brand of infectious enthusiasm. Nali had been as a brother to him long before he and Dís were married, but there had been times when Thorin had found the younger dwarf's company nothing less than exhausting. Nevertheless, he would have endured hours of mindless babble for that cheerful voice to be heard this night, or for a few quiet, well-chosen words from the first brother he had lost.

“He should have been here.” Reading his thoughts, or following her own to the same conclusion, Dís spoke with a wistfulness that was not without anger. “They should both have been here. They deserved that much, at least.”

It was the anger, more than the words themselves, that caught his attention, morphing the smile he wore into a frown. His sister had always had a temper, though she kept it better in hand than most, and yet he  could not help but be concerned, because this was _Nali._ This was the loss that had made Dís falter, the blow that had driven a hole through her remarkable fortitude, and that which was most likely to cloud her judgement at a time when she could ill afford to have it clouded. Entering Erebor as things stood was dangerous. Entering Erebor with her mind consumed by the desire for vengeance was nothing less than folly.

“Dís.” Seeking words of a gentler nature by which to say the same thing, Thorin hesitated a moment too long.

“Ah, there are the boys.” Her face lightening at the appearance of the two, she hastily excused herself from his presence. “I had best go make certain Kíli's braids are still intact.”

Without waiting for his reply she strode away, and Thorin caught himself biting back a growl as he folded his arms across his chest and glared after her.

“She'll be alright, lad,” Balin assured him, approaching with Dwalin at his shoulder. “We'll see to it she stays out of trouble.”

Nodding in acknowledgment of his elder's words, Thorin watched Balin meander down the slope to join the mounted company, taking a place near Dís and her sons. Dwalin, for his part, did not move, lingering near Thorin with a vague sense of discomfort that betrayed his desire to say something he had not yet decided how to say. Thorin simply waited, content to examine his own worries until the warmaster shared his.

“Balin is right,” he said at last. “We'll keep her safe. I'll not fail you again.”

“You have never failed me, Dwalin.” It was an old argument, and one he expected they were both stubborn enough to continue having for years to come. “Frerin's death was not your doing.”

Rolling his shoulders, Dwalin shook his head. “You asked me to protect him.”

“And on the battlefield, trying to hold to such a promise is purely a game of chance. Fate was not on our side, but no blame falls on you for that.”

Dwalin grunted in what was neither agreement nor disagreement, moving off at a hale from his brother. Thorin remained rooted in place, itching to follow, remembering why he could not, and wondering if he might be able to convince Bain to spar. The Captain of Nordinbad had taken on the task of guarding Fíli and Thorin in the absence of their usual escort, and Thorin had no qualms about utilising his continuos presence as a much needed distraction. Any thought of seeking his fellow warrior out was forgotten, however, when a shadow cast across his chosen lookout betrayed the fact he was not alone anymore.

“Gandalf.” There was, after all, only one person in their entire traveling caravan who could cast so long a shadow. “I am surprised. I thought you would wish to accompany Dís and the others.”

“I am needed elsewhere,” Gandalf stated with a typical lack of explanation. “And you cannot send a wizard to do a dwarf's work.” Raising his hand, he waved farewell to the departing riders, smiling at Fíli, who began to make his laborious way to where his uncle was standing as soon as the night had swallowed the group's silhouettes.

“Elsewhere?” Hope stirred briefly. “Are you leaving us?”

“Oh, no.” Gandalf waved his hand as though to chase such ridiculous words away. “You are the one who needs me, Thorin Oakenshield. I am certain Bilbo's presence will go a long way towards smoothing things over, but it certainly will not hurt to have a neutral party present when you speak to Bard.”

“We're going to Dale?” Fíli asked in surprise as he drew within earshot, Bilbo having materialised a step behind Thorin's heir, in case the slope proved more troublesome than it ought. “I know Balin said we should, but I didn't think... Oh.”

Eyes flicking between the pair of them, Fíli lapsed into a wary silence, leaving Thorin free to make his response.

“I had planned to wait.”

“And what if you need allies?” Gandalf pondered aloud. “Can you afford to wait, Thorin? Truly? When a moment of hesitation can be interpreted in so many ways? Better to speak your intentions at once than to have them misunderstood.”

He was right, damn him to the deepest depths, and Thorin could not deny it.

“Very well,” he said shortly. “We'll do it your way, but if this ends poorly...”

“Really, Thorin.” The look Gandalf pinned him with was one of reproach. “When have I ever led you astray?”

“Well.” Fíli promptly found his voice again. “I think it probably started with the dragon...”


	43. Into the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry about the lateish update, people. I've spent the majority of 2015 thus far being very sick, very stressed, and very tired, not necessarily in that order, and as such haven't had much energy to devote to writing. The cycle seems to have stopped for now *fingers crossed*, so you get some more story. That being said, this chapter is a bit of a nothing chapter, setting up the scene and whatnot without quite getting us anywhere. Hopefully it's not too much of a bore before I get around to writing the actual action.
> 
> I would also like to remind people at this point that this story is an amalgamation of book and movie canon. A lot of stuff that happened in the 2nd and 3rd movies didn't happen in HoE verse, and a lot of book stuff did. Please keep that in mind if you hit anything that doesn't quite mesh with the movies. :-)
> 
> Once again, thanks for sticking with this story, read and enjoy.
> 
> All the best,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

**Chapter 43  
**

**_ Into the Shadows _ **

 

Although he had been born outside its walls, the legacy of Erebor that had so plagued Thorin had also played a large role in Kíli's own life. His earliest memories of his uncle's face were interwoven with tales of the birthright they had lost without ever owning. A place that was brighter, more bountiful, _better_ than the home he had known himself. With such tales filling his head, it had been impossible not to see Erebor as his uncle did. A glorious kingdom wrought by their forefather's and stolen away by a vile worm. It had been a magnificent ideal, unattainable, hanging just beyond reach, a reward that was surely worth the hardships they had faced in trying to attain it.

It had been a dream, of course, and, as all dreams are wont to do, it shattered the moment he was able to lay his hands upon it.

He still remembered his first glimpse of Erebor's front gates. After traveling all that distance, after all the difficulties they had faced, and the resounding send off they had received in Laketown, it had been a shock to lay eyes on what was the furthest possible thing from the images he had built in his mind. Instead of the wonder his uncle's tales had promised he had found himself gazing upon a barren land, watching foul vapours leech out through shattered stone, and listening to the eerie stillness that had hung over it all. He remembered all too well the chill that had taken a hold as he stood in the mountain's shadow, and, though much of the apparent evil that had swamped Erebor was now either faded or obscured by the night, his dread was no less.

There was just something about this place. Something cold and unforgiving. A sense of malice hiding in the shadows, awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike. It set his skin crawling, dread coiling like a snake in the pit of his stomach, and the confident fire he had set out with waned steadily the nearer to Erebor’s gate they drew. He did his best to keep it alight, but it was not so easy to be brave without Fíli. Not so easy to quell his doubts without his brother beside him, a presence of gentle warmth and safety that went unacknowledged until it was absent, like the sun one takes for granted until shadows obscure it from sight. In Fíli's company, Erebor's looming presence had abated, the memories so intricately wound up in their new home softened and dulled until they lost all hold over him. But that reprieve had lasted only a moment, for Fíli was not here to act as a ward when those same memories reemerged with enough force to steal his breath away as his chest tightened and sudden panic closed his throat. Though companions rode to his left and right, friends and comrades both, he could not help but feel suddenly alone. Afraid.  _Angry_.

The fear he understood. He had never managed to fully cast off the lingering terror of the worst days of his life, and those days were tied to Erebor. It made sense that, riding across these same lands where his family had shed more blood than they could afford, echoes of the fear that had gripped him then should return. The anger, though? That was new. A quietly roaring tide that thawed through the icy hand of terror that threatened to close itself about his heart, surged through every limb, and lent a tremor to his hands that vibrated through his whole body.

He hadn't considered the manner in which he left Erebor since Rivendell, when he had confessed his failures to Fíli the day of their departure. But even then his thoughts had been on his own actions, not on the way in which his companions had treated him, or how his word had held no value in the face of what they believed to be overwhelming evidence. Evidence that shouldn't have  _mattered_ , for, true or not, surely his belief should have held more weight? Surely his word should have counted for something? Surely one of his friends should have stood by him, and not used grief as an excuse to undermine his every argument?

He understood why they had not. The numerous reasons that had led to his isolation, and he did not blame them for it. They had done what they thought was right, as he had, but knowing that did not make their actions hurt any less. Did not ease the betrayal that birthed fury and anxiety in equal measure, or soothe away the erratic thud of his heart.

His head was spinning with a hundred conflicting thoughts, and with each stride his mount made towards the mountain he found his yearning for his brother's company growing. Fíli would have known what to say. He always did, calmly sorting through the tangled mess his sibling's emotions so often became and handing them back when he was done. Kíli struggled to do it himself, and was too often left stewing in a mire of his own making.

A mire he could not afford to indulge, he reminded himself sternly, shoving the whole mess to the back of his mind, tightening his grip on Fidget's reins, and pointing his gaze at the looming shadow growing to swallow the horizon. A shadow that was his new home – _their_ new home – but one that was yet to be won.

“Durin's beard,“ Gorin muttered from a step behind to his right hand. “This place feels more like a crypt than a kingdom.”

“It is merely the night's shadow,” Balin assured them all. “And our own nerves, I expect.”

“Perhaps,” Gorin allowed. “But I would feel a lot better if we were not riding straight into  _that_.”

With a flick of one hand, he gestured at the great braziers set to either side of the gates. Bright, burning flames that cast the walls into shadow, and made the causeway itself seem nothing but a black, gaping maw. Sentries stood above the gates, Kíli knew, but the light of the fires made the darkness deeper, and hid them from sight. There could be a regiment of archers standing on the parapets with their bows drawn and arrows knocked, and they would never know until the barbs found a home in their flesh.

It was too late to turn back now, and it was hardly the first time he had ridden into certain death. Nevertheless, he could not help but shoot a quick glance his mother’s way, looking for reassurance, only to frown as his eyes took in her rigid seat in the saddle, the particular set of her shoulders, and the resolute look upon her face. Whatever excitement the prospect of Erebor had offered her before had since been swallowed by a sharp and deadly focus that was driven by an unfamiliar, cold anger. Kíli didn't know what to make of the change, and he had no chance to dwell on it as they reached the stone bridge spanning the stream and the shadows resolved themselves into more distinctive shapes. Helms that caught the flicker of fire could be seen on the walls above, and the same light glimmered in the strips of shaped iron that reinforced the large, stone blocks that had been erected to replace Erebor’s shattered entrance. No guard stood outside to greet any who might approach, and those on the wall remained silent, so that for a long moment the only sound in the still night was the trickle of softly flowing water.

Then Fidget’s hoof landed on the edge of the bridge with the hollow ring of steel on stone, and a voice haled them.

“Halt, strangers!” one of the gatekeepers shouted down, his words ringed in hostility. “You stand without invitation on the doorstep of the King Beneath the Mountain. State your business here.”

“Strangers?” Dís called back sharply, before any other could draw breath, straightening in her saddle and adopting an air of incredulous imperiousness. “It is a poor state of affairs indeed when Erebor does not recognise its own royal blood! Has Dain no competent servants in his Guard, that he would assign such fools to stand watch over his keep?”

A ripple of whispered words, the slight clank of shifting mail, and the sound of a single set of racing footsteps pounding down the stairs met her demands. Wincing at his mother’s directness, Kíli jumped when, with a soundlessness that was no less ominous than a groaning creak would have been in its place, Erebor’s front gates swung inwards, allowing them to see the flambeau lined hallway that lay beyond the threshold. Soldiers dressed in the red and black livery of the Iron Hills stood to attention in two neat lines arranged along each wall, whilst one of their number, his uniform trimmed in gold to offer him some distinction from his peers, stepped forward.

“Lady Dís?”

“Fengari!” To Kíli's surprise, his mother's features softened into an honest smile as she urged her mount forward, the rest of her companions falling into place behind her as they clattered two by two across the bridge. “All hope is not lost, then.”

 “No, indeed.” Returning her smile even as he bowed, Fengari took a step back to allow them to pass, gesturing with one arm towards the mountain’s inner workings. “We are honored to welcome you to Erebor, milady, to welcome you home.”

It was a warm greeting unlooked for, and perhaps those words would have been comforting, had Kíli not known that the mountain that welcomed him so gladly also likely wanted him dead.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The journey from their camp on the Overlook down into the valley where Dale lay was not a long one, but with Fíli’s injury to hamper their progress it was not particularly fast either, and the moon was riding high in the sky by the time they neared the city outskirts. By its light one could easily make out where the damage to Dale’s defenses had seen repairs, and just as easily discern where they had not. There was a sense of a task uncompleted to the rough outline the stone painted against the horizon, work abandoned long before it was completed. The sight made him frown, a sense of disquiet hovering on the fringe of his perception, but he could not yet discern its true source, and so carefully refocused his attention on the men watching them approach with stances that betrayed their suspicion.

It was just as well, he reflected with quiet resignation, that none of them, save perhaps Gandalf, had expected their presence in Dale to be greeted with anything but distrust, for they would all have been sorely disappointed. The night watchmen acknowledged them with set faces and terse words, making them wait outside the newly forged gates until word could be sent to their King of the guests that had arrived so unexpectedly in the night. Gandalf’s attempts to make light conversation with them were met with silent skepticism and wary glances, until even the wizard abandoned all attempts at lightening the mood, subsiding into a pensive quiet. It was a relief, then, to hear the messenger’s returning footsteps beyond the gate. Relief that quickly gave way to surprise when the gate was flung open and Fíli realised that the elected errand runner had not simply carried word to Bard, but had fetched the man himself.

After all the changes they had been forced to accept over the past few months, it was something of a comfort to find the renowned dragonslayer largely unchanged. Though his clothes were undoubtedly finer – and _cleaner_ – than they had been when last Fíli stood close enough to tell, they were still of the same simple cuts, fading leather and coarse, sturdy fabrics made for purposes that were only practical. King of Dale he may be, but Bard wore no crown, nor any other badge of his rank, save for a small pin almost hidden beneath his collar, bearing the thrush emblem of Dale’s royalty that had not been worn since the days of Girion.

Walking past the two sentries with a confident stride that was more natural than practiced, Bard let his eyes slip first to the tallest member of their small party, deliberately not questioning the three hooded dwarves standing a step behind.

“Gandalf,” he addressed the wizard in a tone that was neither affable nor its opposite, hovering neatly between them both in the safe realm of civility. “We did not look to see you in the East again so soon. Or perhaps it would be truer to say we _hoped_ not to, for your presence seems ever a herald of fouler things to come. Still, I suppose one cannot blame the messenger if all the news is ill. To what do we owe the honour of your presence here on this night?”

“A bad business, it would seem,” Gandalf replied readily. “If the King of Dale prefers to meet honoured guests on the doorstep rather than within the safety of his own keep.”

“How much safety one might possess inside one’s own keep seems in doubt of late,” Bard replied without flinching. “As does the trueness of one’s friends. I would know your purpose here before I allow you among the people who are now in my charge.”

“We do not come to do harm.” Thorin, who had been standing still and tellingly silent for the duration of the exchange, chose now to step forward, lowering the cowl of his hood to make his identity known. “But rather make amends for that which might have been caused in the past.”

Surprise flashed across Bard’s grim face, followed by an emotion Fíli hesitated to call amusement, though not the sort that might lead to laughter.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he said levelly. Then, with the same steady nerve as had allowed him to fell a dragon, merely added, “You seem remarkably well, for a dwarf whose funeral I attended.”

“So I have been told.” Anyone who did not know Thorin would have missed the slight hesitance behind those words. Fíli did not, and instinctively moved a step closer to his uncle, knowing the many ghosts returning to Erebor had resurrected. Thorin, for his part, glanced Fíli’s way only briefly, then turned back to meet Bard’s inscrutable gaze head on. “I know you have no reason to welcome my presence here. We did not part on good terms, and certainly not as friends, but I would remedy that failing, if I could.”  

Bard did not answer at once, holding Thorin’s stare with an intensity that made even the quiet strangely potent, and when he did speak it was with the thoughtfulness of one who has had much time to reflect on events already gone by.

“If my allies came to my door with an army at their back,” he said slowly. “I believe I, too, would think twice about offering them their dues. We were all of us a little mad that day, and have, it may be hoped, grown a little wiser since.”

“A fine sentiment,” Gandalf interjected, smiling and nodding. “But one that would perhaps be better discussed in different surrounds?”

“Indeed.” Bard spared the wizard a brief, knowing look, then shifted his attention back to Thorin. “I might ask why you chose to come here first, rather than seeking shelter amongst your own kinsmen, but perhaps that is a question that needs no answering. You had best follow me, there is much you should know, and none of it is good news.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

 Even with the comforting weight of the Ring on his finger, there was still a certain finality to the ‘thud’ of the stone doors closing behind him that Bilbo could not ignore. He had felt the same shiver down his spine in the halls of King Thranduil, when the kingdom had been sealed against escape and he had known he was trapped inside. Erebor was not the same, he knew there were other ways out of the mountain besides the front gate, but he could still feel the weight of its walls bearing down upon him. And if _he_ could feel it, invisible to any eyes that might mean him harm, he could only imagine what it must be like for the friends he had followed into the heart of danger.

In the time it had taken for them to be allowed within the mountain, a small welcoming committee had assembled to greet the newcomers, the dwarf Dís had addressed by name having moved to stand at their head as the riders dismounted. He was squat, even for a dwarf, with a short, bristling beard and eyebrows bushy enough to challenge Gandalf’s. But beneath all that hair was a warm smile that told Bilbo he was witnessing a meeting between old friends long before any further words were exchanged.

“Milady.” Fengari bowed low, then straightened, dispensed with all propriety, and drew Dís into a warm embrace. “It is good to see you well. And Prince Kíli!” Taking a step back, he looked the younger dwarf up and down as his expression softened. “We had all but given up hope, my prince. To see you whole and well is a gift unlooked for.”

“It is good to be back,” Kíli answered, almost managing to sound as if he meant it, though his face was pale and pinched to Bilbo’s eyes, smile stretched just a little too thin. “Erebor has prospered in my absence, it would seem.”

“Yes, well…” Now it was Fengari’s smile that faltered, something like unease flashing through his dark eyes. “We’ve cleansed it of the smell of dragon, at least, though I daresay there’s much work to be done before it regains its old glory.”

“You may give us a full tour on the morrow,” Dís interrupted with clear impatience. “For now, I have weary travellers on my hands in need of lodgings for the night, and an urgent desire to speak with my cousin. Where is Dain? Was he not told of our arrival?”

“His Majesty has retired for the night.” Fengari’s face grew stiller as his words stiffened. “If it would please my lady to wait until morning–”

“It would not please me.” Within the space of a few seconds, Dís seemed to grow, her voice taking on an authoritative note that brooked no argument as her brow lowered in a fierce scowl. “I have waited long enough already, and I did not bring my people across the vast lengths of Middle Earth to wait on Dain’s convenience.”

“But, Lady Dís–” Fengari tried to protest, but Dís was having none of it.

“I do not care if my cousin is sleeping the sleep of the dead,” she cut him off. “ _Send for him_. And find somewhere for these people to rest, or I shall claim the King’s chambers for us all.”

Though not the most elegant, her words spurred their reluctant host into action, as Fengari sent one of the younger guards running to the King, assigned another to finding lodgings for Gorin and his disguised men, and appointed himself to the task of leading Dís and her companions to a place where they could await an audience. Left to his own devices, Bilbo fell into step behind the dwarves of Nordinbad, treading at their heels as their guide showed them deeper within the mountain, where rooms once filled with the debris of a dragon’s home had been cleared and made livable again.

At length Gorin’s company was shown into a large, hall-like chamber with pallets set ready along each of its longer walls, a clear sign that, whatever else had been happening in Erebor, preparations had still been made to receive any of their kinsmen who traveled from Ered Luin or elsewhere in Middle Earth. Confident that they had no need of his aid for now, Bilbo abandoned the Nordinbad dwarves to their ruse, picking a path along hallways he had memorized in those long days of brooding darkness beneath Erebor. He was thankful for those wiled away hours now, for without them he would surely have lost his way, and he had no desire to repeat his experiences in the Goblin Tunnels.

Keeping to the shadows as much as he was able for fear torchlight would betray his presence to the scattered sentries, he traveled first to the lodgings the Company had kept prior to Kíli’s flight from the mountain. Unsurprisingly, he found them bare and empty, without even a single belonging left within their walls. With that slim hope proved ill founded, he set a padding path for the lower levels, taking extra care to keep each footfall silent, for, in the quiet of Erebor’s slumbering deeps, even a Hobbit’s light step echoed.

It should not have been so quiet, he knew. This was a dwarf kingdom, and the night was still young for its occupants to be so subdued. But even the guards he saw passing one another in the halls barely exchanged words, and none but them dared walk the corridors. It was eerie and disquieting, and it made the noise, when he heard it, that much easier to follow.

It started as an echo, just caught, so that he paused and held himself still in the hopes of hearing it once more. Then again, faint and distant, so that as he spun on his heel and changed direction it drew him onwards, further and deeper into Erebor’s heart. It was a steady sound, rising and falling, and as he drew nearer he recognized it for what it was: Singing, words given life by a voice he knew well enough to prompt him into quickening his step.

“ _There is an inn, a merry old inn, beneath an old grey hill_.”

Rounding a corner, he flattened himself against the wall to avoid crashing headlong into two mailed dwarves walking side by side. They passed without noticing the soft scuff of his soles upon the floor, and he continued.

“ _And there they brew a beer so brown…_ ”

He reached a set of stairs, steep and narrow, and, after a quick glance behind him, carefully began to pick his way down.

“… _That the Man in the Moon himself came down_ …”

Ten steps down and he turned left, passing through a great, iron door that had been left open, allowing the song to drift clearly through the long, low tunnel as more voices joined the first to lend a roar to the next line.

“… _One night to drink his fill_!”

He slipped past the solitary sentry, who looked half asleep as he leant against the walls; arms folded, and chin near resting on his chest. Another set of steps appeared before him, longer this time, and he counted them as he went down.

“ _The ostler has a tipsy cat, that plays a five-stringed fiddle_.”

He had reached a hundred before he caught sight of the lantern attached to the wall at the stairs’ bottom, and slowed his step, uncertain if it would merely be those he sought waiting below.

“ _And up and down he runs his bow, now squeaking high, now, purring low_ ….”

A hundred more and he was on level ground again, looking down two long rows of iron bars, lit by evenly spaced torches, and empty save for the source of the noise he had followed thus far. Drawing closer to that particular cell, he reached for the Ring on his finger and began to tug it off.

“ _Now sawing in the_ … Bilbo?” With a speed few would have believed a dwarf capable of, Bofur shot to his feet from where he had been seated on the berth at the back of the cell, bounding across the room in three large strides to seize the bars in both hands and stare at Bilbo as if he were a ghost, though not an unwelcome one. Laughingly, he then said, “Well, bless my beard and call me a fool! If it ain’t our burglar up and appearing out of the blue again!”

His words echoed in the hollow space, and were immediately answered by others.

“What?”

“Bilbo’s here?”

“Well, give us the keys then!”

“Bilbo!”

“Who’s going where?”

“Shush, shush!” Somewhat frantically, he flapped his arms at them all in an attempt to make them be quiet. They obeyed surprisingly quickly, all surging to the front of their cells to watch him expectantly, and he felt a sudden twinge of guilt knowing he did not, in fact, have any means of setting them free. Before he could confess this, however, Bifur appeared alongside his cousin, reaching through the bars to seize Bilbo’s shoulder in vice like grasp as he stared the Hobbit down with an expression that betrayed the urgency of the question he had not voiced. But Bilbo did not need words to understand, and answered quickly and firmly.

“Kíli is with me,” he said. “He’s alright, I swear. Dís is here too. I do not have time to explain right now, but…”

“They’re _with_ you?” Gloin interrupted from his cell across the way. “Inside Erebor?”

“They’ve gone to speak with Dain,” he answered, only to watch the firebeard’s expression dissolve into a fierce scowl.

“That’s a terrible idea,” he said bluntly. “What do you think landed us here in the first place?”

“They’ve all gone mad!” Dori piped up from the cage he shared with his youngest brother. “Dain’s whole court. It’s like they’ve been cursed!”

“ _We’re_ the ones that’ve been cursed,” Bombur grumbled, sharing his cell with no one but himself. “Trapped down here with nothing but dried bread and water. You didn’t happen to bring any pastries with you, did you, Master Baggins?”

“I’m afraid not,” Bilbo answered apologetically. “I–”

“Bilbo,” Bofur interrupted him before he could go any further, his voice uncharacteristically low and urgent. “You must warn them. It isn’t safe. Tell them to get out, while they still can.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “We’re here to help. Tho–”  

“So was Lord Áfast,” Bofur intoned darkly. “He was dead two days later.”

 

 


	44. Secrets in Erebor

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

**Chapter 44  
**

**_ Secrets in Erebor _ **

It should have been impossible for any place to be both entirely hospitable and utterly unwelcoming, extending a hand of friendship whilst, at the same time, the other wielded a warding blade. Nevertheless, against all odds Erebor and its occupants had somehow managed to do just that, leaving its guests in some doubt as to where they truly stood. Kíli had never been on the receiving end of so conflicting a welcome, and he was certain he was not the only to have been unsettled by it, even if his companions were doing a better job of hiding it.

At the mercy of his mother's unyielding commands, Fengari had shown them into a comfortable parlour, with fire already lit and a hearty meal laid ready upon the table. On any other occasion Kíli was certain such a banquet would have been both well received and swiftly disposed of, but none of his companions had shown the slightest interest in it at present, and he himself had not had the stomach to swallow anything but a few gulps of water, and that only in an effort to ease the horrible dryness that had taken up residence in his mouth.

“They knew we were coming.” Balin, who had taken a seat directly beside the fire, nodded his head at the laden table. “And they suspected we would not wait til morning.”

“Then why did Fengari try to delay us?” Dís frowned, pausing in her pacing to stand instead in the middle of the room, hands folded behind her back and gaze fixed in the distance. “And why was Dain not at the gates to greet us? If they _knew_ …”

“I do not like it,” Dwalin growled from his self-appointed post to one side of the door, Inga standing silently on the other, watcher her charge with quiet attentiveness. “Any of it. I say we stop waiting and go find Dain ourselves.”

“I do not think that wise at present,” Balin cautioned him. “Dain has agreed to see us, _all_ of us, and that is more than we expected. I think we should listen to what he has to say before we make any rash decisions.”

“Fengari would have said something.” Dís seemed to almost be speaking to herself, still not facing any of her companions, a fierce scowl on her brow. “If there was anything to tell that he knew of, he would have shared it.”

“He may not be free to speak.” Balin shook his head. “Fengari is your friend, Dís, but his first loyalty must be to his lord and king.”

“Then let us hope Dain is in possession of a looser tongue.” Agitatedly, Dís resumed her pacing, her booted feet padding back and forth across the sigil of Durin embroidered into the fine rug spread across the stone floor. “Else we will know no more than we did before we came here.”

“There is always Bilbo.” Kíli felt prompted to contribute in some way. “And Gorin and the others. Even if we find nothing they might have better luck.”

“So long as they are not caught,” Dwalin grunted without optimism. “Did you see the sentries in the halls? You would think the mountain under siege by the number of guards at the ready.”

“Well, I think…” Kíli began, and then trailed off at a sharp rap on the door that did not await a response.

Dain strode in with all the self-assurance one might expect from a king, but none of the retainers, though Kíli caught a brief glimpse of shadows in the hallway that suggested he had not come alone before the door swung shut again. Taking a quick glance about the room to name each of its occupants in turn, Dain then shifted his attention to Dís, greeting his cousin first.

“Lady Dís, it is good to see you well.” He turned then, gaze alighting on his younger kinsmen. “And Prince Kíli. Well, well. I must say the odds did not much favour my seeing the two of you here together.”

“After you sent my son alone into almost certain death, you mean?” Dís retorted with false sweetness, her expression hard, her eyes glinting.

“If you know your son at all you would know I did not _send_ anyone anywhere.” Settling himself into one of the seats placed around the table, Dain gestured for Dís to do the same. After a brief, defiant hesitation, she obeyed the unspoken request, only to stiffen the moment she was seated as her cousin continued, “And because I did not, I know that there can only be one reason for his presence here among us.” Eyes flicking to Kíli again, Dain pinned him with a knowing look. “You succeeded.”

He did not know how to answer that. In all the debates that had been had over what conversation would take place once Dain granted them an audience this possibility had never been raised. Thorin’s survival was supposed to be a secret, a hidden hand to grant them a sorely needed advantage, but of course… _of course_ Dain would guess at the truth of things. Kíli had not hidden his purpose before his departure, not from those who cared to look, and the chances of his mother having reached him before he could dive headlong into danger were slim to none. Dain _knew_ , and yet he mustn’t, so Kíli tried to disprove his claim.

“Lord Dain – ” he started in protest, but was cut off before he could go any further.

“Do not deny it,” his elder cousin said sternly. “Yours was a path that allowed for only two outcomes, only one of which would see you standing here today. You found them, and whether or not you saved one or both has little bearing, for the survival of either should, no doubt in your eyes, change everything.”

“But not in yours,” Balin guessed, brow drawn down into a frown.

“On the contrary.” Dain shrugged, leaning back in his chair as he steepled his hands. “I am quite certain the resurrection of either Thorin Oakenshield or his eldest nephew would start anew all those arguments which have already been settled. I simply see no reason to take part in them.”

“No reason?” Dís snapped fiercely, the firelight catching her eyes and making them burn. “My brother has more right to sit upon the throne of Erebor than you can ever claim. By birth, by trial, by _character_ , if your words here today are any indication.”

“And what of Thorin’s words and deeds?” Dain challenged her, not raising his voice, but holding to a calm that was no less deadly. “Or would you assert that his actions once Erebor was his to claim were faultless? That he did not invite war, and entertain the idea of leaving his kinsmen to the slaughter of the battlefield rather than risk his riches? That he did not threaten the life of his own nephew, _your_ son, when his madness was challenged?”

“How _dare_ you!” Furious, Dís flew to her feet. “You have no right to–!”

“I have _every_ right,” Dain silenced her boldly. “Thorin was named amongst the fallen. His surviving heir surrendered any claim to what was his, and so this mountain and its people fell to my care. _My_ care, Cousin. How would I answer to them if I simply handed all that was entrusted to me over to another not of sound mind because he outranked me by birth?”

It was strange to hear so many of the fears Thorin had confessed given voice by another. But Kíli had not listened to these arguments when his uncle had been the one making them, he was not about to do so now, and neither, it seemed, was Dwalin.

“Pretty words,” the warmaster stated brusquely, his arms folded over his chest in a distinctly threatening manner. “But they all mean the same thing, and greed is no less greed for the mantle that covers it.”

“I do not have to answer to you,” Dain replied, his tone cool, the glance he gave Dwalin one of curt dismissal. “To any of you.”

“Then you will not yield Erebor?” Dís was seething, her eyes shining with fury, her hands clenched at her side.

“I will not,” Dain’s reply was firm and final, as unyielding as the stone that surrounded him, and it was that, more than anything that had been said or implied thus far, that made Kíli doubt suddenly.

“You gave me the Arkenstone,” he reminded Erebor’s ruler, drawing the eyes of all those in the room, holding only Dain’s. “I thought… _Why_? If not for this?”

“The Arkenstone belongs to your family, Prince Kíli,” Dain answered him simply, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I am no thief to take what is not mine.”

Kíli blinked, suspicion hardening into something more certain as Balin argued, “And yet it is also a symbol, of its bearer’s right to rule, and Erebor’s great wealth. With the Arkenstone in his possession, Thorin has every right to demand the loyalty of all those who swore oaths upon that jewel, even the Lord of the Iron Hills.”

“I will answer no demand,” Dain asserted, giving no ground. “For all its splendour, the Arkenstone is but a stone. There are greater treasures to be found within Erebor, and I will not sacrifice them for the sake of anything or anyone.”

“Then I fear I have misjudged you, Dain.” Dís’ voice was calmer now, but no less biting. “I thought you a dwarf of honour, who would uphold his word when it was given, not cast it so readily aside when fulfilling it was to his disfavour.”

“Perhaps you did.” Dain rose, meeting her accusations without any of his own. “But there comes a time when we must all weigh which are the more important promises to keep, all the more so when one oath stands in opposition to the other. I have made my choice, and I will not be moved from it.”

“So I see.” Bitterly, Dís replied, “Were I in possession of such grandeur and wealth without a conscience to speak of I am certain I would not be moved either.”

Dain ignored the venom in her words, speaking instead as if the matter was already dealt with. “You are welcome to stay, of course. Erebor is your home, even if it is no longer yours to govern. I will not turn away any who seek its shelter.”

“I would sooner sleep in a hovel as beneath the same roof as you,” Dís said with feeling, and Dain’s lips quirked in what might have been either smile or frown.

“As you wish, Cousin,” he replied steadily. “I shall have your mounts prepared immediately.”

Wisely not waiting for Dís’ reply, Dain took his leave, the sound of the door swinging shut behind him not quite enough to muffle the sound of indignant fury that left Kíli’s mother’s lips.

“Deceptive _wretch_ ,” she barked out, sitting down with enough force to move her chosen chair. “I was wrong about him. He has no care beyond furthering his own interests.”

“We should have asked after Valin and the Company,” Balin reflected regretfully, only now realising how easily their attention had been diverted from their true goal. “For an explanation as to their absence.”

“Need you one?” Dís shot him a fiery glance. “It is clear to me that Dain is willing to do whatever he must to keep his grasp on the throne. What if he was aware of Valin’s true nature all these years? He might have encouraged it for all we know, biding his time as he played us all for fools.”

“He might have,” Kíli interjected, setting his mug down on the table and taking the seat opposite Dís’ own. “But he didn’t.”

“Kíli, lad,” Balin began kindly. “I know you do not want to think the worst of him – none of us do, knowing the consequences – but his words have made it clear that Dain–”

“But they were not his words,” Kíli interrupted. “Not all of them. They were _mine_.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Dale’s interior, much like its exterior, was a patchwork of finished and unfinished restorations. Cobbled together seemingly at random, they painted a picture of discord that did not sit well with the dwarf walking the city’s streets with two others and a wizard at his back. Though Thorin knew a city of Dale’s size and state of decay could hardly be mended overnight, with the aid the visible dwarven stonework made it clear Dain had provided, a great deal more should have been accomplished than what had actually been realised. He was tempted to ask why, if only to satisfy his own curiosity, but contented himself instead with the knowledge Bard had promised explanations once they reached his lodgings.

It did not surprise him to find that the roof Dale’s king kept over his head was no less modest than the rest of the man’s belongings. His ‘palace’ took the form of a small, stone house that might once have been two stories but had been repaired as only one, longer than it was wide and sparsely partitioned, so that there was room to spare once they were all gathered around the scorched table that took pride of place in the largest chamber. The chairs were mismatched, put together from the shattered remains of unfortunate predecessors, but they served their purpose well enough, and Thorin settled himself on one of their number without comment.

Having dismissed his solitary guard, who seemed none too pleased that his liege lord had managed to slip away without his notice and even less so over his intention to entertain guests without the proper protection, Bard took his place at the head of the table, glancing about the faces of those gathered with a grim expression that did not soften.

“How much do you know?” he asked at length, making Thorin the focus of his question, though any of them could have answered it.

“Very little,” Thorin confessed. “One of our comrades was sending word, but we have had nothing for some months now, and know only that all was not well then.”

“Ah.” Bard nodded. “Then I can, perhaps, offer a little enlightenment, though not as much as I would like. I know more of _what_ happened than the why of it.”

“We would be grateful for anything you could tell us,” Fíli answered him, elbows propped on the table and hands clasped as he leant forward.

“Very well.” Leaning back in his chair slightly, Bard drummed his fingers on the table, thoughts drifting as he sought those he wished to voice. “I will not say that all was as it should be at first. After what happened here, all the lives that were lost, such a thing was hardly possible. Rather, let us say we had reason to hope our situation would improve, and those hopes were fulfilled, for the most part. Once Erebor was settled, Lord Dain proved himself a generous neighbour, providing us with food, labour, cloth, and the less needed but perhaps more sought after share of Erebor’s wealth that Esgaroth’s people had laid claim to. Wealth we would not have been able to spend had Lord Dain not added more practical aid to that already lent us by King Thranduil, tiding us through the winter until such a time as we could stand on our own two feet. We had little enough to repay him with, save for the treasure he himself had gifted us to begin with, and he accepted only a token gesture in return. Dale was recovering its old glory, thoughts had begun to turn to the rebuilding of Esgaroth, people had more reason to hope than to doubt, and we had no cause to expect that to change.”

“Which,” Gandalf concluded astutely. “Is precisely when it did.”

“Of course.” Bard nodded. “I knew all along that Lord Dain’s ascension to the title of King Beneath the Mountain had not been so smooth a transition as my own. I may be a king in name, but I have not yet had to deal with any matter beyond what would once have fallen beneath the Master’s jurisdiction. Lord Dain faced greater challenges, many, I understood, coming from those who should have owed him allegiance. But whatever he struggled against did not reach us here, and he did not share his troubles with me. I had neither reason nor desire to pry, and left him to manage his own keep as he saw fit. Had I a better understanding of politics beyond the Master’s petty machinations perhaps I would not have settled for doing so little. As it was, I did not see the danger until it was too late, and so had no means of avoiding it.”

Sighing briefly he shook his head, before offering them a rueful smile. “It may amuse you to know that, of what little could be salvaged from Esgaroth’s ruin, that of the greatest value was several barrels of Laketown’s finest vintage, normally reserved for King Thranduil’s own cellar. Knowing that your kinsmen are no less fond of a good brew than woodland elves, I offered these to Erebor as a gesture of Dale’s gratitude for the generosity that had been shown to us, never suspecting what it would lead to.”

“Go on,” Thorin prompted, already fearing the worst. “What happened?”

“There was a feast that night in Erebor,” Bard obliged him. “A celebration to mark the occasion of the reopening of the mountain’s forges. No doubt it would have been a fine banquet, had not the first dwarf to down a glass of wine dropped dead on the spot.”

“He was _poisoned_?” Fíli gasped, looking as startled as Thorin felt.

“Not by our hand, I assure you,” Bard said grimly. “Though our word was not good enough for Lord Dain and his court. All ties with Dale were at once cut after our ‘shameless attempt on the King’s life’. Erebor’s gates were closed, and have not been reopened since. My attempts to treat with them have been ignored, and the only word I received in return came not from Dain, but from a member of your Company, who sent word by means of the King’s ravens to assure me they had proof of Dale’s innocence in any plot to murder the king, and were set upon presenting it to the court. Since then, however, I have heard nothing, and can only assume that the true perpetrators did not look kindly upon any such intentions.”

“You think their purpose was to create a rift between Dale and Erebor?” Bain spoke up for the first time. “Or was that merely an unhappy consequence?”

“I do not know what they meant to achieve or why,” replied the bowman. “But Lord Áfast was in charge of all aid we here in Dale received. If a rift was their intention, they could not have picked a better victim.”

It was both better and worse than he had expected, and Thorin took a moment to give order to his thoughts, knowing that a clear head may be their greatest advantage in whatever was to follow. Bard had been right, it was not good news, but it did at least explain the absence of any word from the Company in so many months. He had no doubt that Valin had played a part in the isolation of Erebor from its closest ally in a manner ruthless enough to suggest at the means he would use to deal with any who might thwart him. It gave him little hope that the rest of the Company yet lived, and less for Dain’s own freedom to act as he saw fit. Valin, it seemed, had Erebor in a stranglehold he was tightening by the minute. If he was not stopped soon all they had sacrificed thus far may be in vain, for Erebor might be lost to an enemy as dangerous as any dragon.

“I am sorry I could not offer better news,” Bard spoke into the silence that had fallen. “It is a poor homecoming, I know, and not a circumstance I would ever have wished into being. Erebor and Dale were not meant to be at such odds, and if there is any aid I can offer towards finding a resolve I will gladly do so.”

“And I thank you for it.”

Truthfully, it was more than he had expected. Approaching Dale’s gates Thorin had been bracing himself to be turned away without hearing. For Bard to have greeted them so cordially, to have offered them hospitality and aid unlooked for… It gave him hope, he supposed, that his mistakes were not as irreversible as he had once believed. That Dís and his nephews were right, and the greatest penance he could endure for his actions would be those faced in healing whatever damage they had caused.

“For now,” he added after a beat of quiet. “I fear there is little we can do but wait. Some of my kinsmen travelled on to Erebor. What comes next will depend on what tidings they bring.”

“Or rather,” Bard spoke the fears they were all trying not to voice. “Whether or not they are free to bring it.”


	45. The Deep Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise. That is all.
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

**Chapter 45  
**

**_ The Deep Breath _ **

“Dead?” Bilbo squeaked in alarm, eyes widening as he stared at the dwarf on the other side of the bars, searching for a joke where none was to be found. “What do you mean ‘ _dead’_?”

“He means just that,” Nori spoke up from his own prison. “Dead dead. Gone dead. Dead as a doornail dead.”

“Yes, I got that, thank you.” Waving away Nori’s words, Bilbo kept his eyes on Bofur. “I meant _how_? Why?”

“They poisoned him,” Bofur said frankly, his normal playfulness missing, his manner as grave as Bilbo had ever seen it. “As to the why… Well, that’ll take a bit of explaining.”

Warily, the hobbit cast a glance at the stairs he had descended in order to find the missing members of the Company. There was a guard stationed at the top, he knew, but so far the noise they had made did not seem to have drawn his attention, perhaps because his prisoners had not exactly been quiet to begin with. Trusting that his luck would hold with the same tenacious surety as it always did he took a step closer to his imprisoned friends.

“Tell me what you can,” he said. “I will carry a message to Kíli and the others.”

Bofur hesitated a moment, his eyes darting quickly about the other members of the Company. Having received both approval and permission, he turned back to the burglar as he began to speak, quickly yet quietly.

“You know how things were before you left,” he started from the very beginning. “Everything up in the air and everyone pointing fingers at everyone else. We all reckoned Kíli going and handing the reins over to Dain would put a stop to it, but it didn’t. If it wasn’t the Arkenstone they were harping on about it was Kíli himself being missing, there was always something in the way, some reason not to recognize Dain’s claim to the throne.”

“We all thought it was greed,” Gloin added helpfully. “He was inheriting a mountain of gold. That was bound to cause problems.”

“Dain took it all in his stride.” Bofur carried on. “Kept his mind on proper business and let those with nothing better to do worry about the rest of it. It dragged on for weeks, for months, then finally the Seven decided they couldn’t have a king without the Arkenstone they’d all sworn their oaths on, and that was that. They packed up shop and we were left in peace.”

“Peace, he says!” Oin snorted. “Call a spade a spade, lad, we don’t have time for riddles.”

“Yes, well, it _would_ have been peaceful,” Bofur amended. “And it _was_ , for a short time. Dain wasn’t much bothered by whether or not he was called ‘Lord’ or ‘King’, and most of the dwarves living here called him the latter anyway. Erebor’s restoration was going well, dwarves came from the Iron Hills, and elsewhere, as the news spread. The mountain was coming back to life, we were starting to see what it once was, and could be again. Then, about three months ago, things went horribly wrong.”

“It started with a banquet,” Bombur informed him mournfully. “The entire thing was ruined. We didn’t get to eat a single bite.”

“It was a disgrace, is what it was,” Dori sniffed, sounding every bit as wounded as he looked. “To accuse the Men of Dale of treachery is one thing, to accuse _us_ …”

“Stop, stop!” Bofur waved his hands at them all. “Let me explain it, or Bilbo will be completely lost.”

“I’m not lost yet,” Bilbo assured him. “There was a banquet? A celebration?”

“Aye.” Bofur nodded. “But, in truth, I believe the trouble started before that, and it wasn’t exactly something to be celebrated. People started going missing, you see. Young lads and lasses just up and vanished, one or two at a time. We didn’t think much of it, at first. Erebor is a big place, and a lot of newcomers made it hard to keep track of everyone. Many of them were traveling to and fro from Dale, helping with the rebuilding. We thought they’d stayed in the city, or were in Erebor but elsewhere than where they ought to be. But then it started happening more often, more went missing, and awkward questions started being asked. Lord Áfast heard most of them. He was in charge of those working in Dale, so people went to him, and he promised to speak to Dain. To get an explanation for what badly needed explaining.

“That was when the banquet was announced. We had the forges up and running, all of them, and the mountain ready to be worked again. What with Dale coming along so well, Dain decided we were due a little festivity. He invited Bard and some of his lot, and they came with barrels of that fine, Laketown wine the Master of Esgaroth was kind enough to share during our stay there. Right before the feast was set to begin Lord Áfast rose to make a toast with that same wine, took one sip, and fell convulsing to the floor. He was dead by the time a healer could be summoned, and all of Erebor was in an uproar.”

“Are you…?” Bilbo started, then stopped, certain he had misunderstood. “Are you saying the Men of Dale poisoned Lord Áfast? That they were _kidnapping_ people?”

“That’s what everyone was thinking,” Bofur answered him. “Or what they suspected, but, as Nori pointed out, it didn’t make any sense if you really stopped to think about it. Neither the poisoning nor the kidnapping. So we had Oin take a look at the barrels, to see if he could figure out what had gone wrong, and he found-“

“Nothing,” Oin cut in, demonstrating that remarkable tendency his hearing had to come and go on the basis of convenience. “There was nothing wrong with the wine. The poison had been put in his cup, and the Men of Dale weren’t in charge of the serving.”

“We figured that the half a barrel we polished off to test the theory was proof enough,” Bofur took up the tale again. “So we asked for an audience with the King, and Nori sent a raven to Bard in Dale, to tell him what we were about.”

“Only, to our misfortune,” Gloin drawled. “He was seen, and we were all accused of playing a part in a plot to kill the King.”

“Ridiculous!” Dori stated indignantly, as Bifur echoed his sentiments with sharp, decisive hand movements. “To even think we would take part in such a thing!”

“Dain’s council was baying for blood.” Ignoring the interruptions, Bofur continued, “I think half of them wanted us to face the penalty due to all traitors, but Dain wouldn’t hear of it, not without substantial proof.”

“No,” Dori interjected again. “He just locked us down here out of the way instead. In the cold and the damp-“

“Would you leave off?” Nori snapped at him. “It’s not cold _or_ wet, you’ve got a bed with a proper blanket and are properly fed. We slept in worse places on the way here.”

“Like Mirkwood,” Ori recalled with a shudder, memories stirred no doubt by more than his brother’s words. Bilbo was certain none of the Company had forgotten their captivity in the woodland realm.

“Exactly like Mirkwood, I hope,” Nori agreed, stepping to the edge of his cell to look hopefully at Bilbo. “What do you think, Master Baggins? Got another set of keys in your pocket?”

“Not just yet,” he admitted regretfully, then swung back to Bofur. “What about the dwarves that went missing?” he pressed. “What happened to them?’

“I couldn’t tell you, lad.” Bofur shook his head. “We haven’t had any news since we were put down here. Well, until you showed up that is.”

“I see.” Bilbo paused in thought, his mind racing, a dozen choices laid before him. “But if you had to guess…?”

“It wasn’t a Man who poisoned that wine,” Nori said darkly before Bofur could formulate a response. “And I’ll wager Dale had nothing to with those that went missing, either. Do you know what the strangest thing about the whole affair was? It wasn’t their families who went looking. It was their friends, their comrades. Brothers, sister, mothers, and fathers, they asked no questions.”

“You think they knew where they were all along?” Puzzled, Bilbo questioned the thief. “But then why wouldn’t they say so?”

“Knowing where they are doesn’t mean knowing they’re safe,” Gloin intoned quietly, and cold realization settled over Bilbo like a shroud.

“I’ll look for them,” he said impulsively. “If I can find them, maybe they can tell us what’s really been going on around here.”

“Look for the keys, too, won’t you?” Nori urged. “This place may not be as miserable as sleeping outside in a rainstorm, but I’d dearly like to stretch my legs a little.”

“And make sure to warn Dís and Kíli,” Bofur added. “They shouldn’t stay in Erebor any longer than they absolutely need to. It’s not safe.”

“I will, and I’ll try,” Bilbo promised, already slipping the Ring from his pocket. Hesitating a moment longer, he added in an effort to reassure, “I’ll come back for you.”

“You had better,” Bofur answered him with a wry smile. “We’re rather counting on it.”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

If the journey _to_ Erebor had been nerve-racking, Kíli found the act of departing from the mountain no less so. Gripped by the urge to constantly glance over his shoulder as his stomach churned and his heart thundered in his chest, he held Fidget’s reins in a death-grip and resolutely did _not_ turn in his saddle to see if the eyes he could feel bearing into the back of his head were real or just a phantasm conjured by his overactive mind.

It did not help, of course, that the majority of his companions had chosen him as the resting place for their gazes, the silence that enshrouded them both expectant and impatient. That was his fault as much as theirs, he supposed, for, had he answered their questions when they were first asked instead of insisting they wait until they were well beyond Erebor’s shadow, there would have been no need to curiosity. Instead he had erred on the side of caution, judging that, if Dain did not see fit to speak freely within the walls of a realm he governed, Kíli himself was better off not doing so either.

As Erebor slipped away behind them and Dale grew ever larger on the horizon Dís nudged her mount into a trot, waiting until she had drawn level with her son before reining it back to a walk. Kíli deliberately did not look her way, waiting for her to speak first as he attempted to gather his scattered thoughts, incredibly conscious of both Dwalin and Balin behind him, and how little his words had meant to them when last he had voiced any of importance. He needed to be certain of what he was going to say before he was said it, and ready to defend himself should they argue.

“Now, then.” Unable to hold her tongue in check any longer, Dís broke the silence. “We are far from any unfriendly ears here. What was it you could not say inside Erebor’s walls?”

“Before I left the mountain,” Kíli took a deep breath, commanded his racing heart to settle, and forged onwards. “There was a council.”

“To decide who would inherit.” His mother nodded. “As though they had any right to take that from you.”

“Yes, well.” His mother’s views on this matter had already been aired on multiple occasions, and Kíli endeavoured to keep her focus on what was more important at present. “During that council one of Dain’s court asked me a question; How was Erebor to trust a king who would hand its greatest treasure to the enemy? Who would give the Arkenstone away? I answered him that I had not, for Erebor greatest treasure was not the Arkenstone, but its people.”

He paused a moment, letting the words sink in, then went on.

“I do not know Dain as well as you or Thorin, ma, but all I have heard and seen of his actions – in Moria, in Ered Luin, and here, in Erebor itself – has spoken of his bravery, loyalty, and honour. What has been most apparent, however, above all else, is his regard for his people. It was their welfare he was concerned for when he told me I was neglecting my duties. They are what he values most, and they are what he will not risk. He told us as much, in my own words, and I think that’s important. I betrayed Thorin because it was the only way I could see to try and save us all from what seemed a certain death. What if Dain is refusing us for the same reason?”

“But he cannot think Thorin is a danger to them,” Dís protested, rising in defense of her sibling.

“He could.” And none of them would be able to argue, Kíli knew. They had been there. They had seen. That they had chosen to forgive was no guarantee others would be as gracious. “But I don’t think that is all there is to it. If it were, would he not have said so? Plainly, and without the chance for misunderstandings? He was always very straightforward with me before.”

“And always,” Balin confirmed his supposition. “You are right, Kíli. Were he free to say as he wished, Dain would not bite his tongue for our sake.”

“But he _was_ free to speak,” Dís objected, frowning. “We were alone, and plain words would have served him far better than riddles whose meaning can only be guessed at.”

“There were guards outside the door,” Balin reminded her, his expression pinched. “A chance of being overheard. Do not forget that at least one member of Dain’s court is not what he pretends to be. There may be more, and Dain may be as much a prisoner in Erebor as he is a king.”

Disbelieving still, Dís shook her head. “Dain would never allow himself to be controlled by anyone. Certainly not by his own council. He is as headstrong as any Heir of Durin, I pity the fool who would try to dictate to him.”

“If only his own life was at risk? Then, yes, I would be inclined to agree with you,” Balin replied. “But if Kíli is right then it is not Dain alone who may suffer the consequences of any rash act. We must not forget that Valin has had years to lay his plans, and may have more traps to spring than we know of. We must be careful in our own actions, lest we make matters worse. If we are lucky we will know more once Bilbo returns.”

“ _If_ he returns,” Dwalin murmured without conviction.

“Come now, brother,” Balin chided him. “This is our burglar we are talking about. When has he ever failed us?”

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Fíli was waiting for his brother’s party at the top of the Overlook, seated on the tip of the rise with his legs stretched out before him, and if he had only stopped there because his leg was paining him after the steep climb, well, that was something neither Thorin nor Kíli needed to know. Levering himself back to his feet as the riders came into view he grimaced briefly, spending that necessary moment to get his balance, then limped forward to greet them, not failing to take note of the discontented expressions the moonlight did not hide.

“What happened?” he asked as they drew near, amending his question almost immediately when he caught sight of his brother’s ashen hue. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Kíli assured him, slipping from the saddle to walk beside him as the others rode on to the camp. His words sounded certain enough, but Fíli would have been more convinced had his pallor not been more akin to that of a ghost than a living being. “Or as fine as any of us can be. Did Thorin speak with Bard?”

“He did.” Dubiously accepting Kíli’s words as truth, Fíli obliged him with an answer, “Bard was very beneficent. More so than Uncle was expecting, I think.”

“That would not be hard.” Kíli gave him a wan smile, and his brother returned it.

“No,” he agreed. “I suppose not. Still, he was good enough to share all he knew with us, and to offer his help to resolve the situation, should we need it. He is as eager as anyone, I think, to avoid any further conflict. And what of Dain? Were you able to speak with him? What did he have to say?”

“A lot,” his sibling answered him, handing Fidget off to the handler who came forward as they entered the camp itself. “And not as much as we wished for. He didn’t give us a chance to raise the matter of Valin, or to ask after the rest of the Company. All that was truly spoken of was the throne, Erebor, and whether he was willing to relinquish either to Thorin.”

Fíli suspected he knew the answer he would receive, but asked the necessary question anyway, “And is he?”

“Not in the slightest.” Kíli shook his head. “At least, that is how it appears on the surface.”

“But you think there’s more to it?”

“I think…” Kíli paused, grimacing as he tugged absently on the constricting collar of his formal tunic. “I don’t know. I do think there is more to it, but even if there isn’t…” Coming to a halt well outside the light thrown by the campfire around which the rest of their companions had gathered, Kíli turned to meet Fíli’s stare directly. “Even if there isn’t, Dain’s objections weren’t unfounded. He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, though ma didn’t want to listen. Fíli, even if we stop Valin, even if everything else is settled, what happened here won’t change.”

“I know.” There was no way he could not know, for Thorin was not the only one who might wish that the ability to change the past was within his power. “That is why we are here. To fix what we can fix _now_.”

“Yes, but…” Kíli hesitated, pulling at his collar again, scowling into the distance over Fíli’s shoulder. “I’m not sure that we’re going to be able to.”

Sensing that this was more than his younger sibling’s normal insecurity speaking, Fíli prodded gently, “Why do you say that?”

“The dwarves of Ered Luin know what happened,” Kíli said by way of a roundabout explanation. “They have chosen to follow Thorin regardless, thinking they know the danger. But they were not here. They did not see it for themselves. Not as you and I did. Not as _Dain_ did. They do not understand what it is to face overwhelming odds on a battlefield thinking your king has abandoned you to it.”

He made no mention of what it was to face a blade meant for death held in the hands of a loved one, but Fíli knew he must have thought it.

“And you think it will be less easy for those who do understand to forgive?” he guessed, finally latching onto his brother’s true concern. “You believe that, having borne direct witness to Thorin’s mistakes, they will not be so lenient?”

“I am simply saying that I would understand if they did hesitate,” Kíli corrected him softly. “That they have reason to.”

“Well.” Fíli considered a moment. “You may be right. I am certain there will be some who are not at peace with the idea of Thorin ruling over Erebor, perhaps even many, but there is something you are forgetting.”

“There is?” Curiously, Kíli cast him a questioning glance.

“Of all the people Thorin may have mistreated under the influence of the gold sickness, _you_ were the one most wronged,” Fíli reminded him. “Yet you have forgiven him.”

Awkwardly, fingers still tucked into the high neck of his tunic, Kíli shrugged. “We are family.”

“Which some would say makes the wrong worse, and forgiveness a far more generous gesture,” Fíli pointed out. “Look, Ki, I’m not going to say that you’re wrong, and there won’t be people who never want to see Thorin on the throne. When all this is over, Erebor might still be Dain’s, and we might have to settle for no more than that. But, no matter what happens, no matter who wears the crown, the people inside that mountain will always be Thorin’s responsibility. Will always be _our_ responsibility. We can’t walk away, even if they want us too, not while they are still in danger.”

“I know,” Kíli replied quietly. “I just hadn’t thought of… It’s easier, when you think we are here to fight Valin. To displace a villain and take back a kingdom. But Dain isn’t an enemy. At least, I don’t think he is, and he could still be just as opposed as someone with darker intentions.”

“Well, we’ll just have to convince him he’s wrong, then, won’t we?” Fíli stated philosophically. “It’ll hardly be the first time we’ve stirred up trouble.”

Kíli, smiling, still managed to give him a reproving look for that statement. “This is hardly the same.”

“You think so?” Fíli pretended to ponder it a moment. “I don’t know. There was that one occasion where we ran circles around Balin in a debate.”

“I remember,” Kíli said, somewhat hoarsely, choking on the words. Concerned, Fíli drew a step closer, but his brother waved him away. “I’m fine,” he insisted, once he had his breath back. “It’s just this stupid collar. I’ll go get changed and-”

“Ah, here you both are.” Gandalf’s voice startled them both, and Fíli swung around to face the wizard, suddenly aware that they had taken a great deal more time than they should have rejoining the others. “Thorin was wondering if you had fallen victim to his own abysmal sense of direction and gotten lost, but I see now that is not the case. Conspiring in the dark, are you? Anything worth sharing?”

“Oh, we were just-” Fíli began, and got no further as his brother’s fingers caught in his sleeve in a vice-like grip, swinging him back around.

“ _Fíli_ …”

There was panic in Kíli’s voice, matched by the terror that shone in his dark eyes as he clung to his brother with one hand while the other clutched at his throat.

“I can’t… I _can’t_ …”

He gasped, air escaping him in a terrible, rattling exhale, then his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he fell senseless to the ground.


	46. The Plunge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all.
> 
> I know, I know, long time no update. If any of you have been stalking my tumblr you may or may not have read my explanation for my tardiness on that count, but if you have not know that it is simply a matter of extra work hours and an ongoing family crisis overtaking every other consideration in my life. That is to say that, despite what it may seem like, I have not abandoned nor do I plan on abandoning this story. Progress may be slow, for sure, but it is progress nonetheless, and I hope it suffices.
> 
> On the other hand, having not picked up the growing epic that is this tale in some months I fear I may be a little rusty on the writing front. Hopefully nothing too jarring or unlikely has made its way into this chapter, but if it has I will probably go back and repair it at a later date and pretend it never happened. 
> 
> Read and enjoy.
> 
> All the best,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

**Chapter 46  
**

**_ The Plunge _ **

Kíli was falling.

No. No, that wasn't it. Wasn’t… Didn’t fit. The greyness, the murky touch to the world around him, it wasn’t right. He needed to… Needed to find a way out of this fog. Fogs or clouds? Where was he? What was he… He was… floating, drifting, _running_ , ploughing his way through knee-deep snowdrifts, his breath frosting before his face as the cold air burned in his lungs and stung at his eyes. Fíli had long since vanished from sight, but he knew the path his brother would have taken and, even had he not, he could follow the footsteps in the snow; A clear path down the hill and across the stones protruding above the stream’s dark, deep waters. He had never realised how dark, how deep. Not until he slipped, fell, and the waters closed over his head like a door slammed shut in his face. Furs that had kept him warm betrayed him then, dragging him down, and screaming served no purpose but to lose what precious air he had left.

He was drowning.

He couldn’t _breathe_.

But that... that was not how it should be, his mind rallied, argued. That was not how this story ended. Pieces were missing. Important pieces. Where was the hand that had closed about his collar? Where was the arm pulling him up from the abyss? Where was the gentle voice, the reassuring timbre that had echoed in his ear as he coughed and choked and lived? This was not how it should be, so he did as he had always done when faced with such things; he _fought_.

It was not easy. His own body seemed intent on betraying him. His arms and legs did not feel like his own anymore, clumsy and heavy and unwilling to do more than convulse of their own accord. He did not know whether his eyes were open or closed, the world dark one moment and a bright, painful myriad of harsh colours the next. He knew nothing but the burn in his chest, a pain the pitiful, wheezing gasps he managed could not assuage. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and he moved the arm that was suddenly his own again, snatching out until his fingers found a hold in thick, coarse fabric and the rushing in his ears transformed itself into audible words.

“That's it.” It was not the voice he had been expecting, softer and older and stranger, but he clung to it nonetheless. An anchor in turbulent waters. “Good lad. Well done. Breathe now, breathe.”

He tried to obey, choked, panicked, and flailed. The voice above him changed again, speaking in a tongue he did not recognise whilst long fingers splayed across his chest, pressing against the weight that had settled there like leaden rock. It would not be shifted, but the pressure eased. Only a little, yet still enough. Sweet, cool air forced a path down his throat and he gasped it in in shallow pants, hands clenching and unclenching as his body shook and shuddered.

Slowly, inching his way back towards the world of the living, he became more aware of himself and what surrounded him. His cheeks were damp, hot liquid against clammy skin, tears of pain he had not even realised he was shedding until now. His body felt heavy, as though the very blood in his veins had been replaced with stone, so that only his hold on the being sat beside him kept his one arm aloft. Fitfully, against their will, he managed to crack his eyelids open and saw that the open sky above him had been traded for the shelter of sturdy cloth, half blocked from view by the wizard leaning over him, one hand on his chest and the other on his forehead as strange words spun in the air around him.

But it was not Gandalf's name that left his lips in a strained croak, his thoughts straying of their own accord to a comfort he knew better.

“Fíli?”

Barely a whisper, and still the hold on his free hand tightened, making him aware of it. He twisted his head in time to watch his brother's lips move, not quite in sync with the sounds that reached his ears.

“I'm right here, Ki.” Fíli's steady voice was shaking, bereft of its strength, his blue eyes bright with tears of his own. “I'm right here. Just stay with me. Just stay – ”

Kíli blinked, and the grey fog rolled back in, sweeping all before it. The world shifted, changed, warped. The hand grasping his own grew suddenly cold, Fíli’s eyes dulling, staring right through him as his brother slowly slid to the side, tilting, tipping, blood soaking through his shirt. He landed, sprawled upon an earth already flowing red with spent lives, staring up sightlessly into a sky that was become an abyss. Storm dark, the heavens almost swallowed the crows circling overhead, but they could not hide the harsh cries of the carrion birds as they worked themselves into a frenzied fervour above armies shedding a river of blood in the name of war.

As Kíli stood, transfixed, Thorin loomed before him, anger in his eyes and disgust on his tongue as he spat, “You know _nothing_ of the world.” 

He had no chance to answer, for in the next instant his uncle was flung away, tossed like an insignificant doll by a snarling Warg. Shocked, Kíli staggered backwards, tripped, and fell, landing against bodies that still held warmth where life did not linger. He turned his head, saw Ori, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, bone showing through severed flesh.  Turned again, and there was Bofur, another corpse lost amongst a dozen more, his arm still reaching for his brother, the victim of a troll’s brutal strength. Choking on a sob of terror Kíli scrambled to his feet, trying not to think of what he was pressing against, _who_ he was stepping upon to get away. Fleeing, he made it only a few strides before an icy hand closed about his ankle, throwing him to the ground once again. Frantically, he kicked out against the grasp, only to freeze when his eyes travelled to its source, and clashed with his uncle’s clouded gaze.

Staring at him with hard eyes Thorin spoke, blood leeching from his lips with every word, so that only one was audible. “ _Traitor_.”

“No.” Yanking his leg free Kíli backpedalled, shaking his head in denial. “No, I didn’t.”

He hit something solid, and looked up to see Balin standing over him, grief a mask across his features. “They’re gone, laddie, they’re both gone.”

“But they –” _Weren’t. Couldn’t be. He_ knew _that_.

“You are the heir of Durin now.” Somehow, without his noticing, Oin had come to stand before him, clutching in his hands the ancient crown of Durin’s line. The Company joined him, arrayed in a circle about their young prince, and Kíli felt suddenly trapped, alone, betrayed. “You are the King.”

Frantically, he tried to protest, “Thorin is –”

“Dead,” Dain said blankly, laying a hand on his shoulder. A hand that held none of the warmth it should. Ice rippled under his palm, spreading up and down Kíli’s arm like cold fire. “They are your people now.”

“They’re  not –”

“We are.” He did not at once recognise the dwarf standing before him. There was little to recognise. Half the warrior’s face had been caved in by a blow that had simply shattered bone, his armour torn away, but the crest upon his gauntlets was unmistakable, for Kíli had committed the sigil of Nordinbad to memory. “And you led us to our deaths.”

“I was only trying to save –”

“But you can’t, Kíli.” Fíli smiled at him, lying on the ground with his own twin swords pinning him in place, a macabre mockery of life. “We’re already dead.”

A hand on his shoulder spun him around, and he stared in dismay into the decaying visage of a warrior who had passed weeks, months before, standing now above an open grave like a twisted puppet upon a master’s strings; a puppet wearing the face of the King.

“Do not fear.” The creature that was not his uncle smiled, and hurled him into the abyss. “You are too.” 

 

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

He hadn’t wanted to admit it before, but after what was at least his ninth wrong turn, Bilbo was forced to come to the somewhat grudging conclusion that he had utterly lost his way. He was not certain how he had managed it. A staircase up when he should have been going down? A left turn when he should have been going right? Or perhaps he had simply grown overconfident in his ability to navigate the mountain, only to have the dwarven kingdom go out of its way to prove that it was still the master.

Regardless of the cause, the fact remained that he was all turned about, and frustrated beyond measure. Any chance of providing a timely warning to Kíli and the others had long passed. He could only hope that both the Prince and his companions and Gorin and his men had been wary enough to protect themselves from any threats that might arise. Whether or not they had, there was little he could do to help them now, so he deliberately turned his thoughts away from that problem and on to the other that he faced.

It had been easy to tell Bofur he would find the missing dwarves, and easier still to promise he would find the keys needed to free the Company, but accomplishing that task was proving, if it was possible, even more difficult than it had been in Mirkwood. Every passageway he chose to follow opened up into two or three more, guards were scarce, and if they were present at all they moved little and carried no keys on their belt from whence a stealthy burglar might snatch them. They didn’t even talk, duties carried out in solemn silence, which made hiding around corners utterly pointless. Instead he padded around for what seemed like hours, almost certain he was wandering in circles, until, entirely by chance, he rounded a corner and found himself square in the middle of what appeared to be a clandestine meeting.

Bounding back a step to avoid colliding with Dain’s taut back, Bilbo pressed himself against the wall, catching only the tail end of Valin’s hushed words.

“…them go?” the treacherous councilman demanded, his eyes flashing even in the half darkness of the empty hallway. There was something wild in his gaze, Bilbo thought, something sinister. “Do I need to remind you of what is at stake here? Your people–”

“Are _my_ people still,” Dain fired back, his voice harsher than Bilbo had ever heard it. There was rage there, roped in and contained, but rage nonetheless. “You will forgive me if I choose to act in whatever way I believe best protects them, rather than as directed by _you_.”

“Protect them?” Valin cast the words back at his liege lord in open mockery. “If you do not deal with this threat, immediately and decisively, then–”

“Then what?” Menacingly, Dain drew himself up to his full height and took a step forward, casting the other dwarf into further shadow. “I warn you, Valin, you are hanging by a fraying thread. Do not push me on this.”

“Perhaps,” Valin answered coolly, unperturbed. “You would be wise to heed your own advice. Never forget that I am the reason you are still sitting on Erebor’s throne. I could just as easily be the reason you are removed from it.”

“Or maybe,” Dain retorted, not missing a beat. “I could simply remove you.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Valin said, but, though he did not retreat, Bilbo swore he heard a thread of doubt beneath those words. A hole in the traitor’s armour.

“You do not know what I would dare,” Dain withdrew a step, ice in his voice. “But continue to press me, and you will find out.”

Without waiting for a response the present King Under the Mountain swung on his heel and stalked away, leaving Valin fuming in his wake. The councilman lingered a moment in the corridor, a multitude of expressions flashing across his face, until at last he seemed to come to a decision. Straightening, he set his shoulders, swung away from the path Dain had taken, and set a resolute path deeper within Erebor’s labyrinth.

Bilbo waited a beat, took a deep breath, and followed.  

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

It was difficult to believe that ,only a short while before, the most pressing worry on Thorin’s mind had been the treachery taking place within the walls of Erebor. To think that his largest concern had been for a mere mountain, his focus upon the loyalty or disloyalty of his cousin, upon the welfare of his people, upon so many things that had seemed so important, only to shrivel away into insignificant trivialities the instant word reached him. All of it, every last worry and concern, paled in comparison to seeing his nephew laid out before him – helpless, feverish, frantic, _dying_ – with only the power of a wizard's words to stand between Kíli and the embrace of death.

And it was death that reached for him, there could be no doubt of that. The young dwarf’s skin was a sickly grey, lent no colour by the lantern burning beside him, even as he burned himself. Loose strands of hair clung to his damp face as his head tossed from side to side, eyes open and unseeing at times, closed at others, whilst his entire body jerked and struggled in rebellion against an unseen foe. There were words too, muddled and unintelligible, but the despair behind them was unmistakable, blow after blow to any who stood within hearing, a barrage they all flinched under.

Standing helplessly by, Thorin was forced to simply watch as Gandalf waged a war before their eyes, the wizard's shoulders steady but bowed, his eyes closed and face strained with effort as his hands hovered and his lips moved in quiet murmurs that eluded all ears but his own. Beneath his hands Kíli was as a ship cast adrift on a temperamental sea, now still and rocking, now thrashing and pounding at the whims of an unseen tide.  It was terrifying to behold, and Thorin kept a steadying arm wrapped about his eldest nephew's trembling form as they stood shoulder to shoulder, Fíli having surrendered his place at his brother's bedside to his distraught mother. His mother, who had already lost so much, and was now faced with a blow even more dire.

Thorin's mind veered away from that outcome almost as soon as he had entertained the thought, refusing to believe that they had come so far, suffered so much, only to be dealt a mortal blow now. The Fates had never dealt a fair hand with the Line of Durin's fortune, but surely even they could not be so cruel. Surely they had earned a reprieve, a life that was not stained by more loss than love.

If they had not… If Kíli was taken from them this night… If his sister-son died… There would be no hole in Middle Earth deep enough to protect Dain from his wrath. For, even consumed by worry, Thorin was not blind to the source of his nephew’s illness. Kíli had entered Erebor hale and whole, and had returned thus stricken. Someone within those halls had tried to kill him, had poisoned an heir of Durin’s Line. There would be a reckoning, and anyone, _anyone_ who had played even the slightest part in this foul treachery would answer for it.

Sensing a change, he wrenched his mind away from thoughts of vengeance, glancing the way of the wizard in their company in time to see Gandalf rock back on his heels with a long exhale. Hoping for a miracle Thorin stepped forward, but Kíli had not wakened, trapped, it seemed, in a world of senseless distress, quietly weeping despite his mother’s efforts to soothe him. Heart twisting in his chest he turned to Gandalf, and when the wizard did not seem able to find his voice Thorin sought to find it for him.

“Will he live?”

The words were blunter than he had meant them to be, and he felt Fíli tense beneath his arm as they awaited the wizard’s answer, the fate of Lord Áfast still fresh in all their minds.

“Where there is life there is hope,” Gandalf answered matter-of-factly, his words instilling as much dread as comfort. Thorin knew how healers spoke, and was about to demand a more certain prognosis when the wizard continued unprompted, “I know what you are thinking, so let me offer you what reassurance I can. This is not, I believe, that which caused Lord Áfast’ demise. His death was quick, by all accounts, almost instantaneous, an intention that was not shared by the villain responsible for this. You were being sent a message, Thorin, and a cruel one. Kíli’s death would not have been swift or painless. Instead he would have suffered, lingering in terrible pain as you were helpless to do anything but watch.”

“But you have prevented that, have you not?” Dís was not demanding answers, she was pleading. Pleading for her child’s life. “You have saved him? He will recover?”

Gandalf shook his head as he pushed himself to his feet, looking, in a rare moment of weakness, very much the age his features gave him. “I am sorry, but I fear this is beyond my power to heal.”

“Then…” Fíli choked, unable to continue, the desolation of the thought visibly crushing him. Thorin tightened his hold for fear his heir would simply collapse on the spot, but though he shuddered Fíli stood his ground, pale and devastated and strong.

“I said it was beyond my power,” Gandalf offered what was small comfort. “Not beyond the power of any being in Middle Earth. This poison is one of dark magic, a foulness that attacks not only the body but the spirit as well. I know its kind, and it confirms all our suspicions about the master Valin serves. I can slow its progress, buy us time, but in order to overcome it he needs healing I cannot offer.”

“You mean elvish healing,” Thorin surmised, well versed enough now in what Gandalf did not say to guess at the unspoken words. “There must be another way. Rivendell is too far–”

“I was not thinking of Rivendell,” Gandalf cut him off, meeting the exiled King’s searching gaze head on.

Thorin stilled, old feelings resurfacing unbidden, so that his next words were infused with their own kind of horror. “You are not suggesting…”

“Would you refuse your nephew the aid he needs to survive this?” Gandalf demanded curtly.

“Would Thranduil grant it?” Thorin fired back. “He did not before, when were desperate and starving, what makes you think he will now?”

“Because,” Gandalf answered him calmly. “With the same act that earned your enmity Kíli won the goodwill of the woodland realm. For his actions in trying to resolve the dispute over Erebor’s treasure hoard peacefully Thranduil owes your nephew a debt. He will honour it, and if he, like you, refuses to let go of old grudges, there are others who will do so in his place.”

Thorin hesitated, torn between the desire to do everything in his power to save his youngest nephew and the memory of Thranduil coldly turning his back the day Erebor was lost. He had begged aid of the King of Mirkwood once before and received nothing for his troubles, dare he ask again, when the stakes were so much higher? He was still deliberating when Dís pushed herself to her feet. She had not seen the betrayal that still lurked in his memories, unforgotten, unfrogiven, and he doubted she would care to recall it now if she had.

“We do not have time to argue,” she said sharply, speaking to Gandalf directly. “I will not lose my child for the sake of any ill will. Send for whatever help you need, and please, do it quickly.”

“I will go myself,” Gandalf assured her at once. “There is nothing more I can do here. Kíli’s life is in your hands until I return. He cannot be left alone. You must try to reach him. Remind him of what is real and what is not. Remind him to _fight_.”

“He is a Son of Durin.” The decision now out of his hands Thorin lifted his chin and set his shoulders, bracing himself for another battle. One he could not afford to lose. “He needs no reminding.” 

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Balin had spent the majority of his life engaged in the too oft neglected pastime of words. They were his weapons as surely as Dwalin’s beloved Grasper and Keeper were his, and they had served him well throughout the long years of his life. How many times had he been able to steer his King away from danger with a few, tactfully worded warnings? How many ruffled feathers had he smoothed over with nothing more than a casual remark? How many fears had been soothed and tempers calmed with an absentminded recollection that needled its way into the minds of others and stuck there? Words were his weapon, and he used them well, but, as any master of any art knew, there were times when even the greatest weapon in one’s arsenal was utterly ineffectual.

There were no words he knew of that would help battle this most recent tragedy. He had nothing to offer, no aid to render besides ensuring news of Kíli’s illness did not travel to ears it should not. All advice and comfort that could be had already been given, and nothing he could say would make the hours of waiting the Line of Durin must now endure any easier. Left, then, in a rare position of powerlessness he found himself adopting habits more akin to his brother’s than his own, prowling about the edges of the camp, lingering outside the light of the many campfires, as if the darkness would offer any more answers than its more incandescent counterpart. He knew it would not, _should_ not, so it came as something of a surprise when it _did_.

The shadow materialized out of the night like some sort of dark spirit. If spirits walked with the heavy, sure tread of a dwarf, that is. Balin swung towards the sound, wishing momentarily that the moon had not spent the night playing hide and seek with the clouds, or that he had thought to bring a light with him. Without either, he instinctively sought the blade hanging at his belt, calling into the darkness.

“Who goes there?”

“A friend,” came the swift answer, and Balin blinked, almost certain his ears were deceiving him. “One who would dearly appreciate it if you left that sword in its sheath.”

Disbelieving still he released his hold on the hilt of his weapon, taking a tentative step forward as he squinted into the darkness. “It cannot be…”

“I’m rather afraid it can.”

Drifting into the reach of the camp’s gentle glow, the solitary dwarf tugged back her cowl, letting it fall to her shoulders, baring a head of fiery, auburn hair twisted into a distinctive pattern of elaborate braids. More distinctive still, however, was the scar that marked a path across the right side of her face, leaving an empty socket where her eye had once resided. That space had since been filled with a masterfully crafted gemstone, a dark orb with a heart of captured dragonfire.

Smiling at him, the newcomer offered him a respectful bow of her head, then found and held his gaze as she spoke, “You seem surprised to see me, Lord Balin. I suppose it has been a long time since we last exchanged words. Perhaps you no longer know me as you used to.”

“Lady Svala.” Wary now as well as surprised, Balin studied the dwarf maid before him. “I must confess, you are the last person I expected to find out here tonight.”

“You were expecting to find others, then?” Arching an eyebrow at him in an expression he knew all too well, she did not await an answer, answering the question he had not yet asked. “I am here to request an audience with Lord Thorin Oakenshield, and to convey him a message on behalf of my liege lord and husband, Dain of the Iron Hills.”

“Dain of the Iron Hills?” Suspiciously, Balin picked her words apart, seeking a trap, and not certain whether he wanted to find one there or not. “As things stand, are you not speaking for the King Beneath the Mountain?”

“There is no King Beneath the Mountain.” Svala did not blink her eye, meeting his gaze as steadily as stone, and matching her stare with words that were just as heavy. “I am here to find one.”


	47. What is Forged in Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which villains are despicable, angst is had, Dain bans spa pools in Erebor for all eternity, and I abandon all pretense at timeliness.
> 
> Enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 47  
**

**_ What is Forged in Darkness _ **

 

Valin set off at a punishing clip, anger driving the ‘thud-thud’ of his boots against the stone floor, so that Bilbo was almost certain he would have simply ploughed through any being that dared to block his way. Trailing behind him, Bilbo was hardly in danger of being trampled, but he did find himself struggling to keep pace with Valin’s ire-driven haste. Fortunately, his time in Mirkwood had been spent doing more than just borrowing food from Thranduil’s table and stuffing thirteen dwarves into barrels, and he was able to keep the councillor in sight until they had reached their destination, by which time Valin seemed to have calmed a little. Enough so that his greeting to the dwarf who stepped forward at his approach was almost cordial.

“Tárr.”

The traitor nodded in acknowledgement of his fellow, but said nothing more. Melding into the shadows cast by the torches on the wall Bilbo took the opportunity to study the face of Valin’s acquaintance, not that he needed to, for Tárr's features were such that one would not soon forget them. Stout and short as any of his race the dwarf was clad in the rough tunic of mining ilk, a handful of candles hanging from his belt, and worn gloves snugly fitted on both his hands. Sharp, dark eyes hid beneath his unruly mop of greying, black hair, but it was the burn on the lower side of his left cheek that made him truly memorable. Scarred and deformed, it was also utterly bare, so that Tárr’s thick beard simply ended a little to the left of his chin, lending his entire face a sort of lop-sided appearance.

Bilbo noted all this in the few seconds the silence lasted, before Valin asked, “Has there been any word?”

“None but whispers,” Tárr replied, lowering his gravelly voice so that all that echoed in the empty space around them was indistinct murmurs. “There is a rumour that Bolg has been slain, but those same rumours speak of shades of fallen dwarves rising up from the depths of Gundubad to reclaim their old kingdom.”

“Bolg is of little consequence, dead or alive,” Valin said curtly. “He failed his mission, and dared survive his failure. If death has found him now it is a mercy, for it has spared him his due punishment.”

“And what of our mission?” Tárr wondered grimly. “We have not claimed Erebor, and even if we had it seems doubtful now we will have a lord to offer the throne too. There has been no word. No instruction. We have been abandoned to whatever fate befalls us.”

“Not befalls,” Valin corrected him at once, and there was that same glint of madness in his eyes again. That which sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine that settled in his stomach and churned. “Whatever fate we make for ourselves. If we cannot have Erebor, neither shall the Sons of Durin. We will accomplish that which Smaug failed to do, which Azog failed to do, and end that line once and for all.”

“We are outnumbered,” Tárr warned, more mildly than might be expected with such words.

“And yet we are not the powerless.” Valin smiled, a baring of his teeth that was more animal than anything else. “When they return – and they will, for vengeance, for justice, for Dain’s _head_ – we will be ready, and the Line of Durin will fail, once and for all.”

“I will tell the others,” Tárr promised. “What of the prince? And the others with him?”

“They are worthless now. They shall be the first to die,” Valin decided coldly. “As for Stonehelm… Him we take with us. A fitting prize to sweeten our victory, and prove we succeeded where even Azog and his wretched offspring failed.”

Tárr nodded his agreement, and no further words were uttered as the pair parted ways, Valin retracing his steps down the corridor as Tárr delved deeper into the cavernous chamber Bilbo had not thought to study. It gave him quite a start to do so now, and realise that the ominous shapes lurking in the deeper shadows were none other than the great forges of Erebor, looking as cold and lifeless as they had the day he first beheld them so many months ago. Disturbed by this find, which somewhat contradicted the reason Bofur had given for the holding of the banquet that had caused Lord Áfast’s demise, Bilbo forgot for the moment Valin and his accomplice, struck by the sudden need to investigate further.

Moving without fear of discovery, for not a soul lingered beneath the cold forges, he wandered awhile amidst the still workings. Repairs had been made, debris cleared away, and, to his untrained eye, all looked in perfect order. Erebor’s forges were ready to begin anew their task of old, but none were at hand to bring them to life, or to coax from them the marvels of dwarvish crafts. It was all very odd, and troubling, and Bilbo could not shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something that hovered just out of reach, just out of eyesight, just beyond earshot… Or not, he realised suddenly, pausing to strain his ears for the sound that had caught his attention.

It came again, thankfully, steady but faint, a dull roar that drew him deeper into the innermost workings of Erebor’s heart. He found a narrow staircase and climbed it, mounting what seemed at first to be a sheer, unadorned cliff face against all the grandeur of the mountain’s carven interior. Only once he reached the top, where the roar became a shout in the place of a whisper, did he see that that wall, too, had been carefully crafted, and just as carefully altered. Valin and his followers had turned what had once been a part of Erebor’s lifeblood into its doom, and Bilbo finally understood.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Dís trailed off midsentence as the rustle of cloth announced Balin’s entrance, straightening from her bowed posture to flick a look at the elder dwarf, who appeared at once apologetic and grave.

“I apologise for the intrusion,” he said. “But there is an emissary from Erebor here to speak with you, Thorin.”

Fíli blinked, wondering how Balin could even think to raise the matter of emissaries when his brother lay beside him, struggling for each breath.

“An emissary?” his mother snapped, clearly of the same mind. “After what he did Dain _dares_ to send one of his own into our camp?”

“Peace, Dís,” Thorin rebuked her gently. “There is no proof that Dain is to blame for what has happened.”

“There is no proof that he is _not_ ,” Dís retorted, her anger unabated.

“Nevertheless,” her elder brother persisted. “We must hear what news this messenger brings.” Rising, he briefly squeezed the shoulder of his stricken nephew, then continued, “I shall go speak with them, if you and Fíli–”

“Not alone, you will not,” Dís interrupted, leaping to her own feet, though she did not yield her hold on her ill son’s hand. “I want to hear what excuses Dain will offer for this atrocity.”

Thorin hesitated, his eyes flicking to Fíli.

“I’ll be alright,” Fíli assured him, knowing just as well as Thorin did that the number of people at Kíli’s side was unlikely to make a difference to the final outcome.

“Bain will be just outside if you need to send for help,” Thorin reminded him, choosing not to comment on the fact that no help Fíli could send for would actually be of use. “We will not be long.”

He did not wait to offer further empty words, striding after Balin out of the tent. Dís waited a beat longer, squeezing her youngest’s limp hand and smoothing his hair back from his brow, but there was a mask of anger on her face as she turned to leave, and Fíli felt a brief pang of pity for whatever messenger was to bear the brunt of her wrath. Beyond that, he spared no thought for their departure, wholly absorbed in the task Gandalf had given him. In keeping his brother from slipping away before his eyes.

Kíli had lain quietly for some time after the Gandalf’s departure, his breaths steady, if strained, but restlessness had soon followed, a struggle against an unseen foe that had the young archer twitching and flinching away from phantom touches. He would settle when spoken to, the voices of the living driving away the ghosts of the past, but as soon as the speaker stopped to draw breath the nightmares returned, and the battle would start anew. It was a battle Fíli would gladly continue to fight, to the end of his endurance and beyond, but it was not the failing of his own strength that he feared, and he did not need a wizard’s eyes to know his brother was fading.

Bowing his head he drew in a few, unsteady breaths of his own, fighting back tears, then nearly jumped out of his skin when cold fingers tangled in his sleeve and he raised his head to find himself staring into the hazy, fever ridden eyes of his sibling.

“Kíli…?” he called hopefully, only to have his heart sink again at the response.

“Please.” Kíli pleaded, his words wrapped in desperate, grief stricken need. “Please. They're not dead. They're not dead. I-I have to find them. Please, I have to find my brother.”

“I'm right here, Ki,” Fíli whispered soothingly, relieved to see Kíli’s dark eyes open, but dismayed at the horrors his brother was reliving. Laying a hand atop Kíli's he squeezed gently. “I'm right here.”

Kíli simply stared at him a moment, not comprehending, before closing his eyes and turning his head frantically from side to side as his whole body shook.

“No,” he gasped breathlessly. “No! No, no, _no_!" Fíli reached for him, intending to hold his head still so he did not harm himself, but Kíli jerked away from him as if his touch was torture. Somehow, his baby brother summoned the will to roll onto his side, where he lay, panting for a long moment, before dissolving into another fit of hysterics.

“I'm sorry!” was his next cry. “I'm sorry! Please, uncle, I did not mean... _Please_!”

Fíli could stand it no more. Discarding his coat and boots he clambered onto the narrow berth beside his sibling, using his superior strength to roll Kíli into his chest and hold him there. His brother fought like a wild thing, screaming curses and pleas that sometimes mashed together in broken cries as his strained vocals failed him, but Fíli ignored the noise and the fists that pounded ruthlessly against his chest. He simply held the archer in place, still and steady, until the fit had passed and Kíli lay limp in his arms, his breathless, sobbing mantra of ' _I'm sorry_ ' muffled by the fabric of Fíli's tunic.

Fíli held him all the tighter for that, sliding a hand across his brother's sweat soaked hair in gentle, soothing strokes as he whispered soft nothings. It did not silence Kíli, nor even reach him, trapped in his mind as he was, but simply to be able to hold his sibling’s shaking form brought Fíli comfort, and he swore to himself he wasn’t going to let go.

If death wanted his baby brother it would have to wrench him from Fíli's own arms.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Thorin had never bothered to hide his disdain for his cousin, but even he would have conceded, if pressed, that Dain had proved more than competent in his role as a ruler. He had earned the loyalty of his people, won the goodwill of the nations with which his kingdom traded, and rebuilt the strength that had been lost at Moria in order to defend his realm against those not so peaceably minded. The Iron Hills had prospered under Dain’s leadership, so it came as no surprise to realise his messenger had undoubtedly been chosen with the same care.

Svala Flame-Eye was a figure that commanded respect wherever she went, inside or outside the borders of her homeland. Her rank, both as Dain’s wife and a descendant of royal, Firebeard bloodlines, ensured that much, and yet Thorin knew full well it was not Svala’s rank that had led to her presence before them now. No, Dain was far more astute than that, and where others might have relied upon their standing to protect them he had chosen to put his faith in a far less tangible currency; old friendships and the bonds they forged. Bonds that remained long after the friendships that gave them life had dwindled away. Bonds that added trust, even if it was only the tiniest sliver, to an encounter that could have easily been utterly devoid of the same.

Thorin himself had never known the Lady of the Iron Hills overly well. What friendship existed between their two houses had run its course during the darkest days of Erebor’s people, when his time was not his own and his days blended one into the other beneath a cloud of unrelenting gloom. Instead that alliance, and many more like it, had been the work of Thráin’s younger son, for Frerin drew people like moths to a flame, and then refused to send them away.

Back then not even Thror had been able to deny the value of the majority of the connections Frerin made without his blessing, and it was that knowledge, more than anything else, that stayed Thorin’s hand now. Years ago, his brother had deemed Svala worthy of trust. Whether or not she still deserved the same consideration was yet to be seen, but, in memory of his fallen brother, Thorin was willing to give her that chance.

It did not occur to him until too late that Dís might not be prepared to do the same.

His sister had always had a temper. Having been on the receiving end of her displeasure more than once, Thorin knew it well. Yet, whilst her anger was a sight to behold, it had always in the past had a direction. Dís channelled her rage, turning what could be senseless ire into a power she could wield, a power she could _use_. She did not strike out blindly, or without reason, which is why it came as such a surprise when she swept beneath the eaves of Balin’s tent, caught sight of Svala, and started forward with nothing less than murder in her gaze. Thorin was half afraid she meant to tear their cousin’s wife limb-from-limb, and just as concerned that he had no immediate desire to stop her. Fortunately for them all Svala forestalled any violence by taking a step back as she raised her hands in a pre-emptive surrender.

“Dain did not know,” she stated quickly, halting Dís’ advance, and repeating the words when the only response Dís made was a choked sound of disbelief. “We did not know.”

“That is the only defence you would offer?” Dís spat the words, quivering with fury, her intentions forgotten for the moment as her anger overtook even her need to act. “My son lies dying and you absolve yourself of guilt by claiming that _you did not know_? You are guilty of treason! Feigned ignorance will not spare you the punishment!”

“Lady Dís–” Balin attempted to intercede. Before he could get more than those few words out Svala’s single eye flashed dangerously, and she met Dís’ anger with a cool ire of her own.

“Punishment?” she repeated darkly. “And what punishment would you have us endure beyond the cruel fate we have already suffered? Are _still_ suffering? Dain came at the call of his king. He came, and our people bled for it. Died for it. And when the battle was done, when just reward should have been offered, instead we were left to shoulder the burden of quarrels we had no part in making. Left to make peace with our neighbours because we could not afford to do otherwise. And when peace was made, when all were appeased, what reward did we find then? Enemies inside our walls, poison sowed at the very heart of all that we had built, so that every effort came to nothing, and all our lives hang still in the balance. Do not speak to me of punishment, Daughter of Thráin, the people of the Iron Hills have already paid their due and more.”

Dís, still seething, was not appeased, and Thorin judged it best to intervene before the argument could go any further.

“That’s enough,” he said stiffly, laying a restraining hand on Dís’ arm, for which he received a scathing glare. Ignoring it, as he had so many similar expressions in the past, he shifted his gaze onto Svala, who met his steady regard without flinching. “We will hear you out, but if I believe, even for a moment, that Dain had a part to play in my nephew’s fate...”

He let the words hang. Svala was not so gracious.

“Balin tells me you have spoken already with Bard of Dale,” she pointed out. “Do you truly think, even now, that Dain has power over the fate of anyone who sets foot in that mountain? He is as much a pawn in the game of others as you were the moment you crossed the threshold, only he has more lives to answer for than just his own.”

“Perhaps,” Balin suggested tactfully, before Thorin could find words to respond or Dís could let loose those already gathered on her tongue. “Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning?”

“The beginning?” Svala flicked him a brief look, then settled her gaze on Thorin once more. “The beginning is betrayal.”

Thorin flinched, unable to hide his reaction, and, surprisingly, Svala’s hard gaze softened slightly, the chiselled edges of her features smoothing out as some of the anger bled away.

“There were more unseen threats in Erebor than any of us accounted for,” she said. “It would be easy to pass judgment, and think ourselves right to do so, but that would hardly help matters. I am not here to cast blame, or to point fingers. I have come to speak the truth, or what I know of it, at least.”

“Then let us hear it,” Dís said impatiently, her voice still crisp with anger.

Svala nodded, ignoring the hostility, and offered her explanation.

“I was not present for the immediate aftermath of the battle,” she began. “Dain had left me to see to affairs in the Iron Hills in his absence, and it was not until I received his summons via raven that I knew what had transpired. Many of our people were eager to make the journey to Erebor – who would not be, knowing what a future the mountain promised? – and Dain needed both the numbers and what supplies we could carry to weather the winter to come. We arrived, if not promptly, then as swiftly as we could manage, only to walk into what amounted to little more than chaos. Kíli was recently departed from Erebor, the majority of the Seven were refusing to acknowledge any claim made by Dain until the throne’s closer heir could be accounted for, and when we could offer them no satisfaction on that count they abandoned us as easily as they had ignored their rightful King’s request for aid.”

“As I recall,” Dwalin rumbled darkly from his position just inside the tent’s entrance. “Dain was just as deaf to that request.”

“He was _not_.” Svala leapt to her husband’s defense. “But he was not blind to the potential cost, either. The Iron Hills have shed enough blood for Durin’s eldest line. We are wary of spilling more without good cause.”

“That does not matter now,” Thorin interrupted, pulling their minds from the past back to the present. “We know already that the Seven abandoned Dain, no doubt each with their own designs on Erebor’s throne and wealth, but they are not the concern at present, or, I think, the cause of our troubles.”

“No.” Svala sighed, and the anger this time was as much turned inwards as outwards. “That threat found its origin much closer to home. So close we were blind to it until it already had us in its grasp.”

“Valin,” Balin surmised.

“Yes.” The Lady of the Iron Hills gave a curt nod. “I do not need to remind you that Dain came to power very young. His father and a great deal of the senior council perished outside Moria, leaving him with little wisdom to guide him. Valin was there right from the moment he took up the mantle of Lord of the Iron Hills, offering good council and steady friendship. He has been a mentor to Dain for years, he has served the Iron Hills faithfully, and so, when he turned on us, when he _betrayed_ us, we never saw him coming.”

She paused briefly, drawing in a breath, bracing herself.

“Valin had command over the forges. That was his appointed task. To look beyond the wealth of years past stored in Erebor’s vaults and tend to the future instead. There were many individuals he could have gone to for advice. Seasoned miners and forgers who know their trade and know it well, but he chose instead to seek his workers from amongst the younger generations. Perhaps that should have warned us something was amiss, but Dain’s attention was focussed on rebuilding Dale and Erebor’s defences, the more immediate concern in his eyes, for we did not know if the peace we had found would be lasting, or if enemies still lurked in the shadows looking for weaknesses by which to smite us.”

She smiled then, but it was not a look of good humour.

“All that preparation,” she said heavily. “For naught. The blow came from behind, and we forgot to guard out backs.” Lifting her eyes from where they had fallen she focussed on Dís, no doubt guessing at the resonance her next words would carry. “He took our _children_. That was how it started. They vanished, one by one, and we thought nothing of it. Erebor is a vast realm and there was much to explore. But that did not last, and Valin did not hide his intentions from us for any longer than it took us to realise something was amiss. He was changed. There was a touch of madness in his eyes that had not been there before, or perhaps had simply been hidden. He held the lives of our children, of our greatest legacy, dangled over our heads and threatened to slaughter them all, from those already in adulthood to those barely more than babes, if we did not act exactly as he bid us to. Dain is no coward to be thus bullied into doing another’s bidding, and, even as he appeared to bow to Valin’s demands, he commanded Áfast to find the missing, to strip away Valin’s one claim to power so that he could be crushed by swift justice.”

“But Áfast was discovered.” They had heard how that ended, how Valin had dealt with that threat to his hold over Erebor.

“And murdered,” Svala added grimly. “In such a way that the bond that had been carefully cultivated with Dale was utterly shattered, and we were left to fight this battle on our own. A battle Dain would have fought, no matter the cost, were we to have any chance of winning. But it is not simply the young the traitor Valin now holds hostage, Erebor itself is become a deathtrap, a tomb for all within it if Valin is not appeased at every turn.”

“Surely he can not have so many following him,” Thorin protested. “Dain has armies, loyal men, he–”

“Cannot fight this.” Svala shook her head. “Valin tampered with the forges. He and his followers had ample time to examine Erebor’s innermost workings in those first few weeks after the battle, before anyone else’s mind had turned to such things. Dain threatened to call Valin’s bluff after Áfast was murdered. He risked our son’s life, and the lives many others, to defy him, and Valin didn’t even flinch, because he knew he still held the upper hand. If Dain defies him, if he makes one wrong move in this game, Valin will use the reservoirs in the forges to flood all of Erebor.”

“Is that even possible?” Balin wondered aloud, frowning. “There are failsafes, in case of an accident.”

“All destroyed.” Svala shrugged. “Or sealed and altered. If that water is released it will sweep through Erebor’s lower levels, and maybe not all will be caught in the flood. Erebor is a large kingdom, after all, and the waters cannot follow every meandering tunnel, but enough will die. Valin has promised as much, showed Dain the proof, and has hung it over our heads like the blade of a guillotine ever since.”

“And you cannot move the people to safety?” Thorin questioned, already guessing at the answer.

“We dare not.” Svala shook her head. “Valin could open the floodgates at the slightest sign of defiance. In trying to save lives we may condemn more. I have risked a great deal in even coming to you tonight. If I am missed, and my whereabouts cannot be accounted for, there may be no kingdom for any of us to return to.”

“But this plan is madness,” Balin protested. “If Valin slaughters all his kinsmen, what will be left to rule?”

“It was never about the people,” Thorin reminded him gravely. “For Valin, it was about holding onto Erebor itself. It is a stronghold, a fortress that guards the gateway to the East, and one his master does not wish to see in the hands of Durin’s Folk.”

“His master?” Svala pinned him with a wary look. “It would seem you know more of Valin’s motivations than we do.”

“I know nothing for certain,” Thorin denied. “And knowing what he hopes to achieve helps little in stopping him.”

“Perhaps not,” Svala allowed. “But Valin found his advantage in landing a blow we never saw coming. Finding an advantage over _him_ may be as simple as doing the same.”

“Then you have something in mind?” Dís spoke for the first time since her earlier outburst, her tone considerably more level, if no less unforgiving.

“I do,” Svala answered at once. “The door by which you crept up on a sleeping dragon. Dain thought it important to maintain the same secrecy that has guarded its existence for so many years. It remains hidden. Valin knows nothing of it.”

There was a moment of silence as they all absorbed her words, broken when Balin, a speculative light in his eyes, voiced the thought on all their minds.

“So then,” he murmured. “There’s another way in.”


	48. Of Fear and Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was my birthday yesterday (and technically still is in some parts of the world) and I am going to do the hobbit thing and give everyone else a present. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 48  
**

**_Of Fear and Fate_**

 

Despite Thorin’s promise to Fíli, dawn had come and long since gone by the time Dís approached the tent in which her two children sheltered. Inga had taken Bain’s place as watchman sometime during her absence, and offered Dís a silent nod of support as she approached. Some would no doubt have considered such a gesture wanting under the circumstances, but Dís had always drawn strength from Inga’s voiceless reliability, and she did so again now, bracing herself in readiness to rejoin what was both a test of her patience and her courage.

An apology for her tardiness ready on her lips, she pushed her way inside, then hesitated when the first thing she laid eyes on was Fíli’s coat and boots discarded in an untidy heap on the floor. Her gaze travelled then, up along the berth to the two who rested atop the thin mattress, the one clutched firmly in the arms of the other. Both were asleep, Kíli's head nestled against his brother's chest and, whilst Dís could see the shivers wracking his frame even at a distance, she felt some small measure of relief at seeing the younger of the pair resting quietly. There was no agitated stirring, no frantic murmurs, and she felt hope stir in her chest, fragile and hesitant, but hope nonetheless.

Crossing the room with near silent strides she crouched beside the bed, one hand reaching out to touch the flushed cheek of the archer. Kíli still burned with fever, his dark hair damp and plastered to his skin, and it occurred to her with a rush of dread that this new quietness may well be just another symptom. Just another sign that her son’s life was slipping through her fingers, and that she held no more power over his fate than she had over his father’s.

That thought was a catalyst, a wall cast down with enough force the stones shattered, and a sudden longing washed over her for the comfort of Nali’s presence at her side. It had been an age since she had last experienced that warmth, the eternal optimism he had clung to in the face of even the direst of circumstances, but that did not mean she didn’t still miss it with a deep ache that had never truly faded. She had lost him far too soon, her children had been robbed of their father before they even had a chance to _know_ him, and now, caring not for the fear that pressed against her ribs, or the grief that awaited only the right signs that it was to be unleashed, Fate threatened to drag her youngest away in its dark clutches as well.

“Ma?” Fíli stirred, and she hastened to wipe her tears away before he could see them, peering up at her through eyes still heavy with sleep, his brow scrunched in confusion, shadows of exhaustion visible on his face.

“I’m here,” she assured him, pushing her own bleak thoughts to the back of her mind. They lingered there, spreading terror with their soft whispers, but she kept any sign of that from showing on her face. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“I did not mean to sleep.” Fíli sounded guilty, as though he, the only one to remain at his brother’s side, had somehow failed in his duty. Dís wanted to argue, but he was speaking again before she had a chance to say anything. “I just… I thought it would help. He was in such pain, ma, I couldn't... I couldn't just _watch_.”

“Peace, Fíli,” she answered him in an equally quiet voice. “You did nothing wrong.”

“But he is getting worse.” The devastation in his voice was unmistakable. It cut her as surely as any blade, and she fought to keep herself from flinching. “Ma, is he–?”

“ _No_ ,” she rebuffed that suggestion soundly. “It will not come to that.”

Fíli nodded, accepting those words on faith alone. A faith she wished she could share.

“Has Gandalf returned?” her eldest asked next.

“Not yet.” Thorin doubted he would. Doubted that Thranduil would spare an ailing dwarf prince a single thought. There was a possibility that he was right, that the woodland king would care no more for one life than he had for many, but Dís could not believe that it would come to that. Not yet. “Though, if he travelled with his usual haste, he cannot be far off.”

Fili nodded, and made as if to sit up. He made it only halfway before a hand fisted in the side of his tunic, and both mother and son glanced down into dark, glazed eyes.

“Don't go.” The words were a barely audible croak, but the lucidity behind them made them a sound too precious to place a value upon.

“I won't, Ki,” Fíli promised fervently, wrapping his own hand around that already clinging to him. “I'm not going anywhere, I swear.”

Kíli watched him a moment, openly uncertain, before shifting his head slightly to meet Dís’ gaze. Dís did not even bother with words, pulling up the seat she had abandoned at Balin’s summons and resuming her post at her son’s side. It seemed to be enough, for Kíli settled again, returning to the uneasy doze of a few moments before. Fíli watched him a beat, tensely, as though expecting something more, but when nothing happened he let his eyes wander instead to his mother’s face.

“Where’s Thorin?”

“With Tyrth and Lofi and Balin,” Dís answered readily enough, welcoming the distraction just as much as she was certain Fíli did. “We have learned much. Though to what use we are to put that knowledge none yet know. Caution is needed, that much is clear, but also haste, for Dain believes the patience of our enemy is waning, and dire deeds may follow.”

“ _Dain_ believes?” Fíli questioned. “Then Kíli was right? He has not betrayed us?”

“No, he has not betrayed us,” she spoke softly, lowering her eyes so that he would not see the guilt that lingered there. “He tried to warn us. I simply did not see it.”

“I do not understand.” Fíli frowned, requesting further explanation without quite speaking the words. With a sigh, Dís obliged him.

“I was _warned_ ,” she confessed bleakly. “At the gates. Fengari tried to deter me, to put off any meeting with Dain until the morning, so that word could be slipped to us throughout the night. In my anger I did not think… It was careless of me.” Her eyes lingered on her ailing child, and she could not keep the grief from her face. “A deadly mistake.”

Fíli reached across his brother to lay a hand on her arm, in comfort and forgiveness both. “It wasn’t your fault, ma,” he insisted. “You could not have known.”

“Perhaps not,” she conceded, shaking herself. “Either way, it is too late to do anything but regret it now. There are more fruitful things we might speak of, like all the tidings Dain’s emissary brought. Would you like to hear them?”

Silently, Fíli nodded, and Dís obligingly embarked on a full recounting of all that Svala had told them. Outside the tent the sun continued it’s westerly journey across the sky, and inside Kíli continued to burn in his brother’s arms, a bright light flaring in defiance as it faded away.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

Safely at the bottom of the steps once again, Bilbo sat down to run through all he had learned, and to consider the very pressing question of what he was to do next. He now understood, or thought he did, the conversation that had taken place between Dain and Valin. By piecing together all the stories he had been told and the exchanges he had over heard he thought he might even understand a great deal of what had happened prior, but what was he to do with that knowledge? Thorin had hardly given him specific instructions when he agreed to Bilbo secretly entering Erebor, though finding the Company had been a priority. He had done that, and more besides, and yet the longer he stayed the more things he found that seemed to need his attention. If he was not careful he would find himself still running in circles when Thorin made whatever grand entrance he was planning to make, so he needed to decide what he could and could not achieve, and in what order they should be tackled.

Should he keep looking for the missing dwarves? Dain’s son was among them, if Tárr had not been speaking of some other Stonehelm, and getting the current King Under the Mountain’s heir to safety was surely important. But then, what of the Company? He had promised to try and find a way to set them free. Was that even possible now? Could he really afford to worry about either set of prisoners at all? Should he be leaving Erebor now to go warn Thorin? Or should he try to find Gorin and his men and see if one of them could be sent without alerting Valin and his followers?

It was all a bit beyond a simple burglar, and Bilbo spent a great deal of time asking such questions of himself without proving any more capable of providing an answer as time marched on. All he was certain of was that he could not stay where he was forever, and that his friends were counting on him to bring them news and freedom both. News he could certainly manage, but freedom would be more difficult until he could find that blasted key.

So, then, where did that leave him? In need of some inside knowledge, at the very least, so perhaps the first thing to do would be to find Thorin Stonehelm and the other missing dwarves. Once found, they might be able to tell him where to find a key to set the Company loose, and, if anyone was likely to know more of Valin’s plan than the traitor himself, it was surely those he had first revealed his true self to. If Bilbo was lucky, he might even run into Gorin, or one of his men, as he searched, but if he was not finding them and warning them of the extra care needed could not be put off for long. The Company, sadly, had to come near last. They were safe where they were, if cramped and unhappy, and he knew now that he would not be able to free them without raising some sort of alarm. Better to wait, and be sure. As for carrying word to those waiting outside Erebor, well, that would require leaving the mountain, and so far as Bilbo was concerned he was still at his most useful _inside_ the dwarf kingdom.

It wasn’t much of a plan, he freely admitted, but a plan it still was, and if Gandalf later claimed he could have done better Bilbo would have a few words to say to him about how _he_ could be the one to traipse all through a mountain filled with unseen danger next time such an occasion arose. Bolstered by that thought, he rose to his feet, only to falter again when he realised he still had no idea where to start looking.

Or did he? Tárr had spoken of being outnumbered, and, whilst Valin was doubtlessly responsible for the Company’s incarceration, he had needed Dain to _order_ it, rather than simply doing it himself. That implied he had not had guards to spare, and that, wherever the other prisoners were being held, it would be somewhere close to the centrepiece in all Valin’s plans, so that his men would be nearby if needed.

Pleased with himself, and with the fact he now had a direction to follow, Bilbo set off on the path Tárr had taken, feeling rather more hopeful than he had a few moments before. After all, how hard could finding a pack of missing dwarves really be?

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The sun was hanging low in the horizon when the sentry Thorin had set to watch for Gandalf’s return finally spotted a lone horseman on the horizon. Word was quickly sent, and arrived only shortly before the disgruntled whisper that Gandalf had brought _elves_ – and not just any elves but those of the traitorous, woodland realm – into their midst rippled its way through the camp. Tyrth was not the only dwarf who muttered beneath his breath at the news, and some did not mutter at all, but Thorin acted as though he did not hear any of them. Sharing such sentiments only in the privacy of his own head he excused himself from his impromptu Council to go and greet the Company’s once-guide, drawn to the wizard’s location by the distinct silhouette of his pointed hat.

“Well,” he remarked dryly as he drew near, more relieved than he cared to admit to see the Grey Wanderer again. “You have caused quite a stir. Did you invite the entire Woodland Realm to accompany you?”

“Of course not,” Gandalf scoffed. “I brought only what was needed, as promised, with a great deal more speed than such a welcome deserves.” Properly chastised, Thorin dropped his head in acknowledgement of the wizard’s words. Accepting the unspoken apology, Gandalf continued, gesturing towards the figure at his side Thorin had not even noticed in the evening half-light. Clad in the familiar browns and greens of the woodland folk, she was almost invisible, even outside the borders of the forest. “Thorin Oakenshield, I would like you to meet Tuilinn of Mirkwood. She has agreed to lend us her aid.”

Wondering at those last few words, and the complete absence of any mention of Thranduil’s name, Thorin took a moment to study the elfmaid at Gandalf’s side for the first time. She was not tall by the standards of her people, built lissom as well, so it was almost possible to imagine a strong enough breeze would simply snap her slender frame in half. That was, he decided, likely as much a deception as the youthful face she bore. A face that belonged to a woman much younger than the owner of the deep, blue eyes staring back at him, telling their own tale of a long life not devoid of horrors. But the same could have been said of all elves, and Thorin let his attention wander further, onto more important things. Like the way Tuilinn’s golden hair was bound back well away from her face, and the strap slung across her shoulder that did not hold a quiver in place. This was the healer Gandalf had promised, who met his stare levelly and did not stir beneath his scrutiny.

“I am grateful,” he spoke at last, the words sincere, and Tuilinn inclined her head in acknowledgement, before lifting one brow in an eloquent expression that seemed as though it almost carried words in its subtle lines.

“Time is of the essence,” Gandalf reminded him pointedly, giving those words a voice, and Thorin decided against wasting further, precious minutes to tell the wizard he was well aware of just what was at stake here.

“Follow me,” he said instead, setting out on the straightest possible route to where his family was gathered, not waiting to see if they would follow. They did, of course, trailing a step behind him. The wizard he both did and did not call friend, and the enemy upon which all his hopes rested.

 

 **~** **The Heart of Erebor** **~**

 

The art of poisons and their cures was not one Tuilinn of Mirkwood had come to study by choice. For a time, a long time even by the reckoning of the elves, such knowledge had not even been necessary, their enemies upon the battlefield of medicine limited to infection and the injuries that caused the same. That had changed in recent years, starting with the spiders that had crept up through Mirkwood from the south, and had proved in possession of a deadly bite when riled enough that all thoughts of consuming their prey was forgotten. But that had only been the beginning, and as the power in Dol Guldur slowly grew so, too, had the venom of their enemy’s weapons. Orcs were not intelligent enough on their own to craft toxins, but they knew how to use them well enough, and what would once have been small injuries easily tended became deadly wounds that killed long before help could be sought.

So Tuilinn had learned, had applied her mind to puzzles that bore life and death in the place of success and failure, and had come to realise that in this she was more gifted than most of those who surrounded her. It was natural intuition, a talent she would rather never have discovered, but one that had saved many lives when wounds were shallow and harm ran deep. In the end it did not matter if this was the task she felt called to, for if she was capable of it, and did _not_ do it, then had not the enemy already won the battle in the only way that mattered?

That was her belief, and it had led her to answer the summons Gandalf sent ahead of his own presence, and to follow him to where she now stood, surrounded by hostile gazes, facing an enmity that had been born between kings but had not _stayed_ between them. These people did not care that she had come to help, that her intentions could not have been more benign, they cared only what she represented, and what she represented was evil in their eyes. It was not a pleasant feeling, to be seen as the enemy by those with whom she had no quarrel, and she was grateful when the walls of the tent rose up around her, blocking the outside world from view.

That gratitude lasted only a moment, the time it took her to get her first sense of what she was facing, an aura of fear clinging to the air around her like a foul vapour. It did not come from any of the anxious faces that turned towards her at her entrance, not the mother who felt the terror of her child’s approaching fall – Lady Dís, Gandalf named her, though Tuilinn barely heard him – or the young prince – Fíli – whose bravery steadily wilted in the face of so crushing a blow.

Their fear was great, but it remained their own, and did not spread outwards like a pall of dark mist. Instead, that cloud found its origin around the youngest prince, Kíli, who lay clutched in a nightmare his mind had not conjured on its own. She recognised this work, she _knew_ it, had fought it before, and that was both comfort and cause for concern. The last battle against this foe had not been easy, and she had not been alone then, surrounded by others ready to lend their strength, how would she fare now when those who surrounded her looked at her with as much distrust as hope?

 _Courage_ , Himon’s voice echoed in her ears, the phantom touch of his hands steadying her own trembling limbs, as reassuring as though her teacher had truly stood beside her. _Courage_.

Unclasping her cloak she let it fall to the ground as she moved forward, paying no heed to the many questions being thrown her way, questions she could not answer regardless. She was aware of Gandalf’s presence in the room as she knelt, and she trusted him to speak where she could not, focusing on what was now her charge. His pallor and breathing both betrayed his illness to even an untrained eye, but she looked beyond what was obvious, laying a hand atop his brow and letter her other hover above his racing heart as she closed her eyes and opened her senses to the currents of power flowing around her.

It took her a moment to orient herself, for this was a dwarf, and his roots were not in tree and sky, but rather earth and stone, that which was strange to her. She needed to ground herself in the same, to feel the same connection, before she could even begin to search for what did not belong. Effort and concentration were both needed, and she sunk deeper into her trance, blocking out the voices of the outside world. They did not matter. The havoc she could feel the poison wreaking in the physical realm, slowly and painfully, was of no consequence. His body was fighting the taint, it was his spirit that had fled to hover on the brink of no return, chased there by the black mass of fear she could now see in her mind’s eye, pulsing with ill intent, and laughing at her attempts to dispel it. What she had feared was true, then. The poison had already gone too far for her to combat alone, even if he proved willing to fight for himself. She would need help.

Opening her eyes she sought out Gandalf, holding his gaze long enough to convey all she needed to say. The wizard’s face darkened slightly, but he passed on the message nonetheless.

“We are not a moment too soon,” he stated gravely, laying his own hand where Tuilinn’s had rested a moment before. “His strength wanes.”

“But you can help him?” Prince Fíli demanded, his blue eyes bearing into the elven healer with an intensity that turned them to cold ice. “Gandalf said you would help.”

It was almost an accusation, but Tuilinn simply blinked at him once, lifting one brow in an expression that suggested he may wish to watch his words. He met her challenge squarely, adamant and angry and afraid, and, relenting, she moved her hands to answer him before realising he would not understand. Frustrated, she turned to Gandalf, cocking her head in a silent request.

“She does not speak, Fíli,” Gandalf offered. “But she is skilled with poisons, and has never failed in the past to undo the evil they work.”

The confidence of the Grey Pilgrim would have been comforting, had it not added to the weight already burdening her shoulders.

“‘ _Does_ not speak’?” the Lady Dís queried, glancing briefly at Tuilinn, who quickly threw Gandalf an exasperated look. The questions were always the same, the responses never changed, but until each had been asked and answered the minds she needed to listen closely would wander.

“ _Cannot_ speak,” Gandalf amended. At the mercy now of three curious gazes, he offered only a little more, his voice grim. “The work of cold steel, rather than venom. But now is not the time for such talk, you are all needed.”

With Gandalf acting as her voice, Tuilinn was able to arrange the others as she wanted them about the bed, joined at the hands to each other and their ailing fourth to form a complete circle. These were dwarves, and not the elven healers she would usually have worked with to break the hold fear had taken, but like aided like, and she had to trust that that would be enough.

Taking her own place at the head of the berth, she knelt again, placing her hands on either side of Kíli’s head. He flinched at her touch, but she did not withdraw, closing her eyes and letting herself slip until she could see once again that vein of darkness. She did not fight against it this time, following it instead, on and on until it ended, and she found the presence she sought, small and fragile and lost. She could not touch him, held back by the wall he had built to protect himself, not realising it only served to isolate him further, blocking out the light of the world to which he truly belonged.

She could not touch him, but that did not mean she could not _reach_ him. “Hear me, Son of Durin.” She had a voice here, or imagined she did, and what she imagined was shared by those she imagined it with. “It is time to come home.”


	49. The Past Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I totally cheated to get the word count in this chapter, but we're all going to ignore that, because Flashbacks are a legitimate method of storytelling and that was like, 40 chapters ago, so it must be time for some deja vu.
> 
> On a less excusey note, I forgot to mention in my last A/N that Toastytoastie did a beautiful drawing of Tuilinn for me, as well as a bunch of other scenes/characters. You can find the link to them at http://thetimelesscycle.tumblr.com/HOEFanart. They are awesome and amazing and deserve to be checked out, though do be aware that some involve a bit of gore (as does the story they are based on, but nevermind).
> 
> Read and enjoy!
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 49**

**_The Past Remains_ **

The arching heights of the mountain range were hazy from this distance, white-capped peaks fading into the pale blue sky like reaching fingers breaking the surface of still water. They looked strange from so far away, not like home at all, and Kíli wanted to rise and drift back towards them. Back to what was familiar and safe, even though he knew his road led in the opposite direction, on a path rife with darkness and doubt. It had not seemed so when he first trod it, he remembered. Back then it was excitement that had nipped at his heels, dulling the ache of the departure, promising a future of adventure and glory and legends come into being. But that promise had been broken long ago, and the future was a cloud of sorrow and fear that hid only darker secrets in its midst.

"Of course," a voice uttered beside him, melodic and foreign in the dream it invaded. "You went home."

Instinctively, he turned to look at the speaker, only to find that what was easily thought was not so easily done. The elf maid was _there_ , without a doubt, but at the same time she wasn't, blending into the scenery, as transparent as any window, so that he had to constantly refocus just to meet her steady gaze.

"This isn't home." He did not know why he was speaking to this strange presence; She had come from nowhere, and nowhere seemed to wish to claim her back. But then, the hill he sat upon was many miles away from where he was meant to be, as was the grass spreading out to either side like a soft, inviting blanket that smelt of earth and open air. The one made no more sense than the other, and his response to both purposefully ignored that. "Not anymore."

His ghostly friend did not answer. She seemed to be listening, head tilted to the side, eyes wandering. At length her gaze returned to him, questing, and he felt compelled to answer a question that had not been asked.

"It…" He did not know how to give voice to his thoughts, twisted and dark as they were, and at last he settled on the simplest answer he could give. "It's changed."

"Has it?"

He drew in a sharp breath, blinked, and looked at his surroundings anew. They had not altered since the last time he looked. They had not altered at all.

" _I've_ changed," he said, knowing it to be true. He'd known it all along, of course, long before he retreated to this haven. But admitting to it would have meant admitting to all the events that had led to that change, to walking the road he knew would be stretched out behind him should he dare to turn around. He had tried to follow it, tried to make his way back to where he knew he was meant to be, but something had always held him back. A fear that robbed him of his will, and a grief that threatened to destroy what fear could not.

"And you fear that change?"

"No." He rose, mustering what courage he could to turn and face the road forwards. It was barely visible, shrouded in a seething mass of shadow, as virulent and dangerous as the most violent summer storm. " _That_ is what I fear."

The elf maid moved to stand beside him, dimming the nearer to the darkness she strayed. For a moment Kíli thought he saw uncertainty on her face, but then her features hardened into something grimmer and more determined as she turned back to him. "There is only one way out."

"I can't face that again." He baulked, terror rising of its own accord as he stumbled back a step, remembered images flashing before his eyes. He knew, he _knew_ that the battles he had seen lost had in fact been won. That the lives that had slipped through his fingers were in truth still being lived. That the words that had struck his heart like a belt flaying flesh had not been spoken in the way he heard them said. But it didn't matter what he knew, because what he saw was real. It was _real_ , and no amount of self-enforced reason would change that.

"This is what darkness does," his companion uttered softly, bitterly. "It takes and twists and ruins. The memories you see are not those you remember, nor what you believe, but you can't see past the fear, for it is all consuming, and it devours truth." She paused briefly, fingering something on her belt as she frowned into the shadows. "But it can be fought, and defeated, if you are willing to try."

She looked back at him, eyes piercing, and in that moment she seemed as real and solid as anything could. Behind him, the mountains shimmered, the grass beneath his feet faded, and the darkness gave way to flickering candlelight. He blinked, trying to clear his vision of the blur that lingered, and it was then that he saw her; his mother, standing before him – _leaning over him_ – her arms outstretched – _her hand clutching his_ – in a gesture of welcome and shelter both – _terrified like he had never seen her before, and trying not to let it show_. He didn't think, he simply moved, stepping towards her. He had only taken a single stride when the ground dropped away from beneath his feet, and he plunged, down, down, down as a silent scream was torn from his lips and cold laughter echoed all around him, stopping only when he hit the bottom...

…and awoke.

It was not a pleasant awakening, his heart racing as he bolted upright from his slumped position and stared about himself wildly until recognition set in and his pulse began to slow. Letting his breath escape him in a single rush he slumped against the stone slab he had been leaning on when sleep claimed him, a sense of dread seeping over him as he recalled the reason he had come to this place.

"Mother will be here today."

He spoke into the empty space, and, though he knew it was foolish of him, though the result was always the same, he still waited, breath held and ears pricked, to see if the empty space would speak back. It did not, holding to the silence that was its own, and with a sigh he let his head fall back to rest upon the stone behind him, refusing to turn and acknowledge the graven words pressed against his back.

"I have not told her yet," he confessed. "It did not seem right, to entrust such a message to a raven. Better that I should tell her myself. That we should tell her together."

No voice answered him. No reply came. He sighed again, rubbing his fingers in circles against his temples, right where the crown sat, pressing into his skull with determined persistence no matter how many times it was altered to prevent the same. He had ceased to care about the pain now, it seemed almost fitting that it should be his constant companion, a reminder of his utter failure.

"I wish you had not gone," he said impulsively, though it was not the first time he had thought such a thing, or even voiced it. "I wish I had followed. I wish I had taken your place. I wish…"

So many things he knew he could not have. So many regrets he could never make right. He had been told, by many, that the burden of that would ease over time, but to him it felt as though the weight was growing heavier with each day that passed, until one day it would simply crush him, and there would end forever the Eldest Line of Durin.

"Kíli?"

"Ma?" Startled, he rose from his makeshift seat, shifting the heavy circlet that had been sitting in his lap back onto his head as he strode forward, briefly wondering why Dís had come alone, and why no one had announced her arrival.

"Where are they?" He halted, taken aback by the sharpness of her words, as well as the anger he could see lurking in her eyes. "Kíli, where are they?"

Perhaps it had been a mistake, not sending written word, for now that it came time to impart the truth he found that his tongue had cloven to the roof of his mouth and he could not speak aloud the grief that was in his heart. He did not need to in any case, for the tombstones behind him spoke eloquently enough for themselves, and when Dís' eyes drifted back to his face anger had turned to fury.

"You let them die."

Flat and certain. He could not deny it. It was truth. The truth he knew, and the truth Dís knew. It was his failure that had led them to this place. That had left him standing, helplessly by, at the side of elves and Men as his family was slaughtered, and he could do nothing to save them. He had hoped to find comfort in his mother's presence, but he knew he deserved her anger, and he accepted now with a sinking heart that his grief was his to carry alone.

"That is what you fear, is it not?"

 _That_ was not his mother's voice, and Kíli whirled, staring in abject confusion at the elf maid sitting, crosslegged, atop Thorin's tomb. Seeing her brought the memory back, of the mountains, of the road swathed in shadow, and of her challenge to him, and he took an uncertain step forwards.

"Who are you?" he wondered aloud. "Where am I?"

"That is what you fear," the spectre repeated, her gentle voice without echo, a soft brush of wind and nothing more. "That you will be blamed. That you must bear guilt as well as grief, and you must bear it alone."

"It was my fault," he whispered brokenly, lowering his gaze to the floor.

"You cannot see the truth," the strange apparition answered him, and he found himself suddenly pulled around by a force he could not see, so that he looked upon his mother again, her features lit now by tearful joy in the place of her earlier rage. "But others can in your place, and care for you enough to do so. Ask her. Ask for the truth."

Almost wildly, Kíli looked over his shoulder, but the strange being had disappeared again without so much as a whisper. His mother was still waiting, watching him with a look of such compassion he could not help but speak, the words wrenched from him piece by piece, for he feared the answer would break the last of his resolve and send him spiralling into a darkness from which there was no escape.

"Can you forgive me?"

In response, she opened her arms wide, and Kíli found himself walking forward, step by halting step, until he fell into the safety of that embrace. Warmth surrounded him instantly, a sense of peace settled across his shoulders where only darkness had lain for so long, and his mother's voice sounded above him, loving and sad.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said gently. "Oh, my dear Kíli, there was never anything to forgive, not even when I believed the worst."

He wanted to believe that, but how could it be true? How could she forgive him for not finding a way to save them? He wanted to speak his doubts, but it seemed he did not need to, for Dís heard them regardless, tightening her hold on him until, quite suddenly, the world around him fell away yet again, and he found himself looking out of eyes that were not his own on a memory that he had forgotten, though it was as much hers as his.

 _Dís swore her heart stopped when her son appeared at the top of the stairs. Her son,_ alive _. Her worst fears, that she had lost all three, had lost her life_ , _banished in an instant. Relief was not a strong enough word for the feeling that surged through her in that moment, hot fire and cold water all at once, and she did not even realise she had spoken his name until she was already moving forward. She seized a hold of him without thought, grasping at his arms just above the elbows, terrified her hands would pass right through this apparition. But he was here. Her Kíli. Her child. He was safe._

 _"_ _What were you_ thinking _, you foolish boy?" she cried, tears of anger and relief and so many other things falling from her eyes unheeded. "You're all I have left, Kíli." It cut, and burned, and_ hurt _, but at least she still had this. At least she still had him, even if it had been so near a thing that her heart ached with the fear of it. "And I almost lost you as well."_

 _"_ _I'm sorry, ma." He sounded small, and stricken, perhaps by the realisation of all he had put her through, as he slid his arm around her and held her close. His_ arm _, for the other was wrapped and bound to his chest, a clear sign he was not whole. That her child, her dear heart, had come to dire harm. "I'm so sorry."_

 _"_ _You had better be!" She wasn't sure whether she was laughing or crying now, though she suspected it was both choking her voice as she returned his embrace, so very grateful that not everything had been stolen away from her. "Oh, my precious child." More precious than Erebor's wealth to her, and she had almost lost him. "My dear, dear boy."_

Kíli blinked, and drew in a sharp breath, suddenly himself again. Around him, the crypt of his imagination faded away into nothing as rightful memory asserted itself, and he wondered how he had ever managed to so confuse the truth.

"They are your fears." He did not startle this time, though his heart skipped a beat. Tilting his head slightly, finding that the strange, ethereal being was easier to see if he did not directly look at her, he watched her study him with an unerring stare that might have made him uncomfortable, were he not already so confused he did not have any discomfort to spare. "But you need not conquer them on your own."

"I already have." It did not feel like a lie, yet it seemed like one, and he frowned, wondering at his conflicting thoughts.

"Perhaps," the elf maid conceded, tipping her head in acknowledgement of his claim. "But the sun need only be blocked by a pinhead to cast a shadow, and if you do not fear you still doubt. The darkness feeds on such feelings, and it has bewildered you, so that you cannot see a way out until it is shown to you."

"I do not understand." His head was aching, and he felt hot, though the walls around him were of stone and the air was cool.

"You will." She sounded almost regretful. It did not set him at ease, and nor did her next words. "What else haunts you, Child of Earth and Stone?"

He knew the answer, but did not want to, and tried to keep it from his face. Too late, for her eyes were already boring into his own, reading all the thoughts lurking there unspoken.

"You were banished by your own kinsman," she stated calmly, and he flinched at her words. "And all your companions, those you trusted, your blood, stood by and did nothing."

That was a wound that should long since have been healed, he knew, and yet it remained, open and weeping and refusing to close. Refusing to leave itself in the past where it belonged. Because that wasn't a lie, was it? It was truth. On the wall above Erebor, only Bilbo and Gandalf had spoken for him. None of the Company had, and Fíli…

"A _lie_ ," his companion, his guide interrupted his thoughts before they could go any further. "You know it to be so. Mithrandir told you himself, but if his word is not enough to convince you then come, see for yourself."

She beckoned him, and he came, drawn forward like an unwillingly puppet on a string to fall once more, the dizzying shift of images around him no less disorientating than it had been the first time. The elf faded, leaving him standing, watching a familiar scene that had haunted his dreams for many nights. He recognised the anger in his uncle's face. He recognised himself stepping into the path of that fury to protect Bilbo. He recognised the glint of sunlight on steel, and Gandalf's voice forestalling bloodshed as he turned the battle back to one of traded verbal blows.

It was all familiar, except for what he was feeling, what he saying. Except for his _voice_ , for it was not his, it was Fíli's.

_Thorin's agreement had come too swiftly. Fíli stepped forward, though he knew he could not bodily halt words._

_"_ _Traitors belong amongst their own kind. And you..."_

_The uncrowned King Beneath the Mountain turned then, his piercing gaze finding his youngest nephew, and Fíli almost fell back under shock himself at the words that followed._

_"_ _You are no heir of the House of Durin. You are hereby stripped of the right to utter any affiliation with that house, and from any claim to the rights and privileges the bloodline of that family carries."_

 _"_ _Thorin..." He took another step forward, desperate to intervene, but Thorin did not even so much as glance his way. "Thorin, stop, please."_

 _"_ _You have disgraced these halls." His eyes darted to his brother, though he almost wished they had not, for he could see Kíli crumbling beneath every word. "And those of your ancestors who once walked them, and in retribution I name you cast out and exiled from this and all other sanctuaries belonging to our people. Now go, and go quickly, before my patience is done."_

_But Kíli didn't move, his eyes fixed on Thorin as though his uncle had just ripped his heart from his chest with his bare hands. And Thorin had, Fíli thought, grief and fury and confusion stilling his tongue when he knew he should have been saying something, anything that might spare Kíli the utter agony this had to be. Bilbo moved faster than he, however, and the hobbit had led his brother away before he could do more than raise a hand in a gesture of pleading even he did not fully understand. The wrongness of this was overwhelming, and Gandalf's words echoed in his ears._

Bewitchment _, the wizard's voice sounded again and again._ Bewitchment _._

 _"_ _I am betrayed," Thorin was speaking again, angry still, though it was a more controlled rage now. Fíli did not understand how it could be so, for his own emotions were in turmoil, his head filled with questions and doubts and screaming denials, and he had half a mind to fling himself off the wall in Kíli's wake. That was his brother, his baby brother, and Thorin had just..."It was rightly guessed that I could not forbear to redeem the Arkenstone, the greatest treasure of my house. For it I will give one-fourteenth share of Erebor's wealth, but that shall be accounted the promised share of these traitors, and with that reward they shall depart, and you may divide it as you will. They will have little enough, I do not doubt."_

 _"_ _Until it is delivered, we keep the stone," Bard replied, unmoving, and Gandalf added his own words of wisdom._

 _"_ _You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain," the wizard stated flatly. "But things may change yet."_

 _"_ _They may indeed," was Thorin's answer, and Fíli's eyes snapped to his uncle in sudden suspicion, wary of the tone in which those words were uttered. Surely Thorin did not meant to..._

 _"_ _We will give you until tomorrow," Bard addressed Thorin again. "At noon we will return and see if you have brought forth from the hoard the portion that is to be set against the stone. If that is done without deceit then the siege shall be lifted, and we will depart from the Mountain."_

_With those final words the leader of men turned his back on the gates of Erebor, all others following in his footsteps, and Fíli watched in dismay as his brother vanished from his sight. His heart spoke out against all that had happened, and he demanded answers of himself in anger. Why had he not intervened sooner? Why had he stood by and let Thorin threaten first Bilbo and then Kíli, his own brother? Furious, he turned away from the wall even as he heard Thorin call for Roac, storming down the stairs to the hallways below. He paced there, back and forth, as he waited for the others to descend as well. Thorin was a long time following, and did not even bother speaking to his nephew as he strode across to the smouldering remains of the night's fire and calmly took his seat there._

_It was that indifference that did Fíli in, the blond dwarf crossing the space between he and his uncle in a few long strides and ripping his gifted sword free of its trappings to hurl it to the floor. The bejewelled blade clattered on the stone with a resounding boom that drew the attention of the whole Company, and not just the dwarf at whom's feet it had been so violently cast. Thorin was the last to raise his head at the noise, taking a moment to briefly study the fine weapon Fíli had so loved when it was first given to him, and now loathed with all his being, before turning his gaze up to his enraged nephew._

_"_ _What," Fíli began, verging on an icy fury such as he had never felt before, his hands clenched at his sides and his teeth grinding together as he spoke. "Was that?"_

_Around them, the entire Company seemed to close ranks, either to retreat or to intervene Fíli neither knew nor cared. All he could think of was the way his uncle had come so perilously close to bringing the blade now resting at his side down upon his brother, and the way Kíli had simply shattered as Thorin made every perceived rejection of the past pale in comparison to that which now hung over the present. Fíli did not understand why Kíli had given the Arkenstone to Bard and the elves. His brother was impulsive at the best of times, and never one to think things through thoroughly, but he knew Kíli would never deliberately betray them. Whatever thoughts had been in his younger sibling's mind when he handed the beloved jewel over, they had not been of treachery, of that Fíli was certain, and he had not deserved the punishment Thorin had been all too ready to mete out._

_"_ _Justice," Thorin answered him tersely, his eyes narrowed in warning. "Or do you condone what he did?"_

_He. Not Kíli. Not 'your brother'. Simply he, because Thorin had taken everything else._

_"_ _You call that justice?" he demanded fiercely. "You were going to execute him!"_

 _"_ _That is the penalty for treachery!"_

_Surging to his feet, Thorin pulled on his advantage in height to tower over his nephew, but Fíli would not be swayed. His mind was clearer now than it had been in days, and he knew, realized for the first time, that it had not been clear before. He did not know when the lure of the treasure had breached his defences and taken his mind, but he knew now that it had happened, and that it was still happening to all those around him. Because Fíli knew his uncle loved both he and his brother as a father would his sons, and, were Thorin in his right mind, he would not have raised a hand, let alone a blade, against either one of them._

_"_ _Kíli did not betray you!" he shouted back, refusing to be cowed, and wishing he had his younger brother's height to combat Thorin's. "He was trying to help!"_

 _"_ _By selling our greatest treasure to the enemy?" Thorin's voice was thick with anger, disappointment, and incredulous disbelief. "That is what you would call aid?"_

_Why had Kíli bartered the Arkenstone? Why had he risked going against not just their uncle, but also every dwarf in the Company, to hand such a prize to those who besieged them in their own home? Fíli paused a moment, seeking an adequate response, and knowing if he simply thought for long enough he would find his brother's reasons. He knew Kíli too well to not be able to figure out the path his thoughts must have taken. His brother had been alone, surrounded by kin who had eyes for nothing but the bewitching treasure thick with a dragon's curse, and he had chosen to take the greatest treasure of all and give it to the enemy. Was he hoping to avert further enchantment? No, the entire Company had already been obsessed with the gold, so that could not be the reason._

_And then he remembered Dain, and the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place._

_"_ _He was trying to stop a war!" he roared, not realizing he had done so until the echoes came bounding back again. He heard one of the others – Ori, most likely – let out a startled gasp at the mention of 'war', and latched onto that as his answer. "Because that is what it is going to come to, isn't it?" he demanded sharply. "You told them you would pay Bilbo's share of the treasure in return for the Arkenstone, but you don't mean to, do you? You're going to wait for Dain, and you're going to try and fight rather than give the men of Esgaroth a single coin! For Durin's sake, Uncle, they slew the dragon, do they not deserve something?"_

 _"_ _They chose to align themselves with the elves," Thorin answered him, steel in his voice. "That was their choice, and they were warned of the consequences of making it!"_

 _"_ _Because the elves brought them food and shelter!" It felt strange, justifying the actions of an enemy he had been just as determined to thwart as Thorin but a few hours ago, but the memory of the look on Kíli's face, the utter devastation that had splashed itself across his young visage, was now irremovably imprinted in Fíli's mind, and it easily eclipsed whatever hold the gold had possessed over him. "Were they supposed to turn away an offer for aid?"_

 _"_ _They brought an army to our doorstep!"_

_That was true, a point Fíli had to concede, but..."They did not know we were here."_

_"_ _And that excuses their actions?" Thorin demanded incredulously. "Had we not been here they would have marched freely into Erebor and claimed all its treasures for themselves, never once sparing a thought for those of our kin who have as much right to claim it as any elf or man. Had we not been here, the legacy of our people would have been split among them like the spoil of thieves, for that is surely what they are. If they came seeking payment for the aid they offered, why did they bring armed forces? Why now do they besiege us in our home, when they could have come before the gates of Erebor as friends?"_

 _"_ _Maybe because they are as bewitched with its treasures as we are," he answered, quietly, but with brutal honesty. "And it has driven them to equal lengths of madness."_

_His words fell like as many stones into a tranquil pool of water, sending distorting ripples out through the gathered Company, and bringing Thorin, who had been pacing back and forth in his ire, to a standstill. Fíli knew full well how touchy a subject he had chosen to raise, but knew also that the trial of having to tend Thror during his descent into insanity was perhaps the only thing that would allow him to reach his uncle now. The sway of the dragon's curse had only strengthened the lure of Erebor's riches, and Fíli knew for a fact how difficult it was to escape the thrall of the treasure. Thorin was staring at him now, however, an unreadable look on his face, and Fíli did not know whether to flee, stand, or speak._

_"_ _You would dare make such an accusation?" Thorin said at last, his voice pitched low and full of menace. "Against your King?"_

 _"_ _No, not against my King," Fíli corrected calmly, showing none of the fear that had formed inside him. "Against my uncle. You threatened Kíli, Thorin. You drew your sword on him and could easily have brought him to harm had it not been for Gandalf."_

 _"_ _Gandalf?" Thorin snarled the wizard's name. "Do not speak to me of Gandalf. His burglar was nothing but a spy amongst us, intended to tear us apart from the inside as soon as the treasure was within their reach. Gandalf never meant to help us, he sought only to profit from our quest."_

_It was not working, Fíli realized with a sinking heart. He could not break the hold Erebor's treasure had on Thorin as Kíli had broken the spell it had cast over him. He had failed, and he now stood before a king he no longer knew, in the company of friends he was no longer sure he could trust. None had spoken forth against Thorin, either on the wall above or here below, but it may have been respect that stayed their tongues, and the privilege their lesser relations to their leader denied them._

_"_ _You will not reconsider, then?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer._

_Thorin sighed, and for a moment, just a brief moment, Fíli saw the uncle he knew and loved in the proud dwarf's face, but that person was gone a moment later, swallowed by the new King under the Mountain._

_"_ _Kíli made his choice," he stated firmly. "As I made mine. Nevertheless, he was your brother, and I do not begrudge you the desire to speak on his behalf."_

_Fíli felt his mouth run dry at the inclusion of the word 'was', and could find no words to respond. Thorin, apparently deciding the matter was done, his forgiveness having closed the subject, motioned for Balin and Dwalin to join him before heading back out onto the wall, no doubt to survey the enemy camp for the umpteenth time, or consult with Roac. Fíli watched him go, feeling as though he should have fought harder, said more, but unable to summon the courage to try. He had done his best, and his best had not been enough._

Kíli stumbled, gasping, tears in his eyes as he clutched at the wall beside him for support. His limbs were shaking, but what emotion had driven them to that state he could not yet tell.

"I didn't know," he spoke into thin air, knowing, somehow, that his words would be heard. "I didn't know he… I never asked…"

"Because it was to be forgotten," his elven companion replied, nodding. "It was of the past, and the past was too painful to face. But you see now, what was twisted and what was true. Death did not defeat you. All did not abandon you. What else remains? What wound lingers that hurts you so you would mask it with others?"

Kíli closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the stone wall, guilt flowing through him as readily as fear. He had faced this already, had forgiven, had never _blamed_ , and yet the words would not leave him. The memory would not cease taunting him, and perhaps this nightmare he had found himself in was the cause of its strength at present, but it had not been weak even before. Buried, but not weak.

"I see." A kindly hand, weightless yet warm, landed on his shoulder and gently squeezed. "You doubt still, and that doubt has grown into a dragon inside your mind."

"I hope not," he whispered. "Dragons are hard to kill."

She laughed, the sound of amusement clashing with the sombre air, and yet he felt his own lips tugging into a smile of their own accord.

"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But you are a bowman, and I know where to find you an arrow."

_It was into Thorin's memories he slipped this time, feeling the pull of muscle and the motion of a blade in his hands as he fought in a battle for his life. A battle that had been raging for decade upon decade, and ended now in a single stroke._

_Azog's wretched skull bounded across the ground, a snarl forever etched onto his vile features, and the world around both Fíli and Thorin grew suddenly quiet. Unable to take the time to relish a victory that had been overly long in coming Thorin adjusted his grip on his blade and straightened, pushing his exhaustion away as he readied for what was sure to be a flood of enemies raining down upon them with naught but blood and vengeance on their minds._

_That flood never came._

_An elven company broke through from the left flank, the Prince of Mirkwood at their head, and set upon the orcs with dire intent. Leaderless, suddenly bereft of their captain, the enemy ranks parted beneath the onslaught, slowly but steadily falling back as the elven troop gained ground, and Thorin found himself outright staring as the Greenwood's prince directed his soldiers in what could only be a manoeuvre of defence. Fíli was quicker to the realization than he, and Thorin started as his nephew cast his weapons aside for the second time, this time in wild abandon as he flew to his fallen brother's side._

_"_ _Kíli!"_

_Thorin would have reprimanded him for casting his only means of protection away in the middle of the battleground, were it not for the cold terror silencing his voice. Instead he staggered somewhat unsteadily after his eldest nephew, crashing to his knees beside the pair as Fíli cupped his brother's pale face in his hands._

_"_ _Kíli, wake up. Please, Ki, open your eyes. Please."_

_No answer was forthcoming, and Thorin forced his gaze away from Kíli's still and bloodless features to peel back the soaked layers of his tunic and examine the damage Azog had inflicted. His heart sank as he realized his nephew had entered the battle with nothing more than the light armour they had been given in Laketown; Weak, inferior, and certainly not capable of withstanding the brute force of Azog's attack. But the damage incurred by Esgaroth's lacklustre wares was not his concern, and Thorin set to work on removing the mangled remains of Kíli's breastplate, his breath leaving him in a sharp hiss as his eyes fell upon the mangled flesh, blood, and bone that was Kíli's right shoulder. The mace had struck there, the full force of Azog's blow, but the spiked ends of the terrible weapon had gauged Kíli's side as they passed, leaving deep rents in his flank. There was blood. There was a lot of blood, and Thorin found himself suddenly at a loss, his hands shaking with the realization of just how bad Kíli's wounds were._

_"_ _Uncle?" Fíli eyes had drifted from his brother's face, the title he uttered a tremulous question, and when Thorin glanced up he found the elder brother's eyes fixed with stark terror on his younger sibling's injury._

 _"_ _Put pressure here," he ordered, trying not to think of what additional pain they might inflict in trying to save the young dwarf's life. Waiting a beat to be sure Fíli obeyed despite his blanching reaction Thorin started to his feet, whirling in search of his companions. Most were nowhere to be seen, separated from their King and commander long ago, but Balin and Dwalin had made it within the circle, and it was to them he now turned._

_"Where is Oin?" he demanded. "Find him! Swiftly!"_

_He did not wait to see them go, his attention drawn back to his nephew's face as Kíli stirred, a pitiful moan of agony escaping his lips as his eyelids fluttered erratically._

_"Kíli?" Fíli leant forward and Thorin did the same, searching for that flash of brown, that precious sign of life. "Come on, Ki. Open your eyes for me. "_

_Kíli whimpered, his face a mask of pain, and when his eyes did at last open, glazed and unfocussed, he did not look at Fíli but past him, straight into the visage of Thorin Oakenshield._

_"I did not mean to," he whispered, voice a threadbare strand, woven with guilt as tears carved tracks in the grime on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I did not mean..."_

_Thorin almost staggered back in shock._ By Aule, what have I done?

_"Hush, Kíli." Kneeling again he reached out to mirror the stance Fíli had held moments before, resting a hand on either side of his younger nephew's pain etched features, holding Kíli's gaze with his own. "It is forgiven. It is all forgiven. Just hold on a little while longer. Just a little longer."_

The memory flowed onwards, but Kíli was no longer a part of it, standing like an untouched pillar of stone in the midst of rapid waters, savouring words he had heard time and time again, but never truly felt. Platitudes uttered since had soothed the pain, but only now was the injury itself cleansed, leaving Kíli feeling both drained and… and lighter, somehow, as though a great weight had been lifted off his chest.

"They are waiting for you." He opened his eyes and took a breath for what felt like the first time in days, meeting the calm blue sky reflected back at him in his companion's eyes. "They do not blame you. They will fight for you. They forgive you. Will you trust me now, to return you to them?" She stretched out her hand, palm upward, inviting him to take it. "Will you come home?"

They were back on the hill where their journey had begun, he realised slowly, the Blue Mountains rising to his left, whilst to his right, unveiled at last, Erebor stood like a towering sentinel, shrouded in mystery still. Ered Luin was safety, was home, was the past. The Lonely Mountain was uncertainty, was danger, was his family.

The choice was simple. Kíli took her hand, and opened his eyes.


	50. Pitfalls

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 50  
**

**_Pitfalls_ **

 

Fíli drifted, floating in a place that was somewhere between waking and slumber, drowning in the echoes of that terrible day. Feelings overwhelmed him: The excruciating poignancy of his helplessness, the deep furnace of his anger, the churning depths of his guilt. He knew them all, for they were his own, scooped up in another’s hands and returned to him from the past to which they rightfully belonged. But there were others as well, thoughts tied to memory, emotions as raw and potent as the day they had been birthed, and those… those were not his.

He shuddered beneath the onslaught of his mother’s grief. He felt the black hole that had been carved deeper inside her chest with each missive the ravens carried from the mountain. He shared in the relief that had drowned out her sorrow when she had laid eyes on her youngest and realised she still had something left. That Erebor had not taken all.

He knew the weight of Thorin’s regret. He flinched at the remorse that stung the exiled King every time he was reminded of the price his nephews had paid in reclaiming their birthright. He was haunted by the fear that lingered still in Thorin’s heart, that he would repeat the same mistakes all over again despite his best intentions.

It hurt, it burned, it tore at him. Engulfed, he could do nothing but try and ride out the wave of conflicting emotions, letting them all pass him by, only to then cling to those that came last. Those memories, those thoughts meant more to him than the others, for they belonged to his brother, and he would not surrender a single piece of Kíli to the darkness without a fight. So he held tight to the archer’s doubts, to the betrayal and the heartbreak that had set all that had happened since in motion, and did not let go until cool fingers closed about his forearm and he opened his eyes with a start.

Tuilinn smiled at him softly, her hand lingering as long as it took him to focus on her face, then she withdrew. Fíli frowned, glancing about his surroundings to reorientate himself, taking note of the bright, morning sunlight spilling in through the doorway. It had been hours, then. No wonder he felt so stiff.

“Kíli?”

Dís’ voice was low and cracked, but it was the word itself that mattered, and Fíli turned his head so quickly his neck twinged. Ignoring it, he waited with bated breath as the archer stirred, the hand grasped in his own twitching slightly as his brother's eyes slowly opened. Kíli blinked a moment, a haze of confusion settling over his features, then his gaze slid to their mother's face and he smiled.

Dís fell forward, laughing and crying at once, to enfold her youngest in a tight embrace he did his best to return with his one free limb. Fíli had not yet released his other hand and did not do so now, tightening his grip instead, revelling in the fact his brother returned the hold. Not to be excluded, Thorin moved around the bed to lay a hand on each of his nephews’ shoulders, his steady presence smoothing out the last of Fíli’s unsettled thoughts.

“The crisis has passed,” Gandalf breathed out, interrupting their joyous moment. His voice was filled with such relief Fíli wondered, a stray shaft of fear piercing his chest, how close his brother had truly strayed to death's door. “It is over.”

“What is?” Kíli asked, the words muffled by his mother’s shoulder, his throat rubbed raw by the hours of torment Fíli would not soon forget. “What happened?”

“Nothing that need worry you right now,” Dís told him gently, releasing her hold on him as she straightened. Kíli continued to watch her, his expression doubtful, and she stretched out a hand to smooth back the tangled locks that had fallen across his brow. Even as she offered that comfort, however, her eyes went to Tuilinn, seeking the healer’s assurances that the young dwarf’s confusion was nothing to be alarmed at.

Without words to offer, the elf maid simply tilted her head, her expression serene, and Dís visibly unwound another notch. Kíli was not so easily quieted, and Fíli watched as his brother's eyes flitted to each member of his family in turn, his face pinched as he tried to put together a puzzle for which he did not have all the pieces. Then he laid eyes on Tuilinn, and his face cleared rapidly, a shadow dancing briefly through his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, the word barely more than a whisper. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“You were dreaming,” Dís answered him, drawing the archer's eyes back to her own, her voice purposefully steady and soothing. “Such terrible dreams. But you are safe now, Kíli. They cannot harm you here.”

And Kíli took her at her word, to Fíli's mingled surprise and relief, accepting the reassurance she offered without even a single questioning look. It was almost enough to make him suspicious of his sibling’s true thoughts, those he harboured in a hidden place, far from all prying eyes, concealed even from his brother at times. But Kíli was concealing nothing as he let out a deep breath and melted back into the thin mattress, his eyes slipping closed of their own accord. Fíli could not help the alarm that gripped him in that moment, but the feeling was allayed almost immediately by the wizard in their midst.

“He simply needs rest,” Gandalf prompted, rising. Once he was on his feet his eyes settled on Fíli, his expression knowing. “And it would seem he is not the only one.”

It was true, of course. Fíli was exhausted, and would gladly have gone to sleep then and there were it not for the other concerns pressing on his mind. Plaintively, he turned to Thorin, who shook his head in answer to his unspoken question.

“Get some sleep, Fíli,” his uncle commanded softly. “Erebor can wait a little longer.”

**~Heart of Erebor~**

 

Bilbo was swiftly coming to hate the silence of Erebor's hollow caverns. It reminded him too much of what the mountain had been like when he first entered it: oppressive, unwelcoming, heavy with foreboding and the stench of dragon. He caught himself jumping at every little noise, seeing ill intent in every shadow, and constantly checking his hand to make sure his Ring still sat upon his finger. He could never be sure it was there, not with the constant feeling of a hundred eyes bearing into his back, unease crawling up his spine in a prickling wave as a voice whispered in the back of his mind that he should turn back.

Now.

Before it was too late.

But Bilbo had been away from home for a long time. He'd learnt to ignore that voice, in all its various forms, no matter how wise the advice it offered might seem. Doing so had, admittedly, gotten him into a fair few scrapes, but he had always managed to get himself back out of them again, and he had come to trust in his own peculiar sort of luck. It had kept him alive thus far; he had no reason to doubt it now.

Pressing on, he wound his way through tall forges, deep pits, enormous anvils, and hammers bigger than even Beorn would have been able to wield with his bare hands, suspended on chains with an array of pulleys and levers to make them swing. In motion, they would no doubt have been a sight to behold. Standing in muted silence they seemed only a testimony to a tragedy yet to finish playing itself out, an ominous forewarning of a permanent stillness yet to come.

Occasionally, a shuffle of movement would shatter the monotony of the utter quiet, but Bilbo always shied away from such occurrences, knowing he was unlikely to find any friendly faces lurking in the darkness. He clung instead to his own shadows, moving ever onwards, passing out of the crowded workshops and into a low, long cavern that bubbled with the sound of rushing water. It was an artificial waterway of some sort, a crossroads where the contents of the mountain’s reservoirs were ferried to and fro to where they were needed. Grooves in the well-worn stone told Bilbo that those waters had once flowed in many directions, floodgates open and shut by levers set somewhere he could not see, but now they all roared along the same path, herded into the deathtrap Valin had created.

He was halfway across the room before he realised the murmuring all around him was not solely of the water's making. Voices could be heard as well, indistinct and muddled, echoes bouncing off the walls and falling back into the constant babble of running water. Shrinking back against the wall Bilbo held himself absolutely still, afraid of discovery. Nothing moved in the cavern, however, no footfalls joined the muted words, and at length he dared to venture out to seek the source of the sound.

It was not easy to trace. Echoes made any noise deceptive, and Bilbo spent a great deal of time pacing in ever widening circles, pausing every few steps to listen. Gradually, he found himself retracing his steps, returning to the dull roar of the churning, contained monster that had replaced the dragon dwelling inside the mountain. He approached it from the opposite side this time, the ledge he had stood on before barely visible across the great expanse of water. Nearer, on his left, a small set of steps led down to another pool, the next in a long line of the same, itself no less a raging beast than its larger compatriot. Frowning, the noise all around him drowning out the echoes, he acted on instinct and descended another level.

This time he found himself on a wider platform, a series of levers breaking the smooth surface of the stone wall. He stayed well away from them, fearful of accidentally unleashing the torrent, and skirted the pool using the narrow ledge that circled around it to the next set of steps. He had not yet reached their bottom when the voices came to him again, the echoes boxed in this time so that actual words were distinguishable.

“… All I’m saying is these walls aren’t _that_ thick.” Bilbo slowed, changing his direction slightly to veer away from the larger pool on his right to the three, smaller cisterns that made up the next level. “So long as we don’t bash the wrong one in, I reckon we can smash our way out.”

“And all I’m saying is you shouldn’t need me to tell you that that isn’t a plan.” The second voice was shrouded in exasperation, Bilbo noted, as he clambered down another flight of stairs. “We don’t have any tools. What do you think you’re going to use? Your head?”

“Well,” the first speaker hesitated. “You _do_ have a reputation for –”

“It’s Stone _helm_ , not Stone _head_ , you nyaff,” came the sharp response. “And if I was going to use anyone’s head to break down walls I’d choose the one with the least brains in it, not my own.”

Reaching the edge of the first of the three, empty repositories, Bilbo lay down flat on his stomach, peering over the rim in the hopes he would be able to make something out at the bottom. He could see nothing, but the muttered response of Stonehelm’s companion drifted up clearly enough, and so he called softly down.

“Hello down there!”

There was a brief silence, the sound of scuffling, and then a wary voice answered him.

“Master Baggins? Master Bilbo Baggins?”

For a moment Bilbo hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. He had never met Thorin Stonehelm, having left the mountain before Dain’s family made the journey from the Iron Hills, so how…?

“How do you know it is Master Baggins?” Clearly of the same mind, one of Stonehelm’s companions questioned him in a hushed whisper that was not so hushed it didn’t carry in the hollow space.

“How many other hobbits do you know that have made their way to Erebor?” Stonehelm hissed back, reminding Bilbo that, invisible or not, he still sounded nothing like a dwarf. Obviously no man was going to be creeping around Erebor’s inner workings unnoticed, and an elf was even more unlikely, which made it a simple process of elimination. “It is you, isn’t it, Master Baggins?”

“It is.” He drifted away from the edge long enough to remove his Ring, popping his head back so that they would be able to see him, even if his eyes had yet to adjust enough to see them. “I’m here to rescue you.”

“Mighty fine of you, Master Hobbit.” It was not Stonehelm who answered him this time, but rather one of his companions. “Do you happen to have any rope?”

“Or something harder than Bjarni’s head,” a fourth voice chipped in cheerfully, which prompted another mutter from the put upon dwarf.

Bilbo barely noticed, cursing himself for not having come more prepared. No keys and no rope. So much for his reputation as a rescuer. Though, if this was where Valin had been stowing all his captives, he must have had some way to get them down there in the first place. A rope? Or maybe a ladder of some sort?

“Give me a moment,” he called back, making sure they knew they were not simply being abandoned before scrabbling to his feet. Eyes darting to every corner he turned, only to freeze when he came abruptly face to face with Tárr. His proximity to the scarred dwarf made him backpedal, swiftly, only to rear forwards again when his heels brushed against the edge of the pit.

“Hello,” Tárr said with a smile that was pure malice. “ _Rat.”_

Before Bilbo could reply, he gave the hobbit a hard shove. Bilbo had no time to right his footing. He wavered on the edge, arms flapping uselessly, and then he fell.

 

**~Heart of Erebor~**

 

It was no easy thing to be faced with the worst mistakes of one’s past. To have them not only recalled to mind, but also raised upon a pedestal, painted in vivid colour for the entire world to see. There was no escaping the cost of his folly when it was counted in every shambling step his eldest nephew made. There was no ignoring the pain he had inflicted when he could see the scars it had left behind in every uncertain look that flashed across his youngest sister-son’s face. There was no hiding from the damage he had wrought upon his closest kin, not when he had felt it all, _seen_ it all through their eyes.

Standing on the Overlook, his hands folded behind his back and his feet braced apart, Thorin looked down into the Valley of Dale and remembered it all. It was hardly the first time he had done so, but standing here, with a clear view of Erebor’s gates and the aging battlefield that lay upon the mountain’s doorstep, history felt nearer than memory had ever made it before. Or perhaps he had Tuilinn to thank for that, for showing him the worst of his failures from another’s perspective. He might have held it against her, had she not been responsible for saving Kíli’s life.

It was a strange turn of events indeed, when he would sooner entrust his nephew’s welfare to an elf of Mirkwood than his own kinsmen, and a clear illustration of all that was wrong with matters as they stood. Dwarves were known for their loyalty, and yet all Erebor seemed to have wrought was treachery and betrayal. This needed to be set right, and swiftly, before treason turned into tragedy. And yet…

 _No_. Tightening his hands into fists, he shook his head, dispelling such thoughts before they could form. Now was not the time for doubts. He could not waver here. Whatever move was made to stop Valin’s machinations had to be sure and decisive; there was no room for hesitation, not with the fate of his entire people resting in the balance.

“Thorin?”

Nodding in greeting as Balin joined him on the rise, Thorin waited for the aged advisor to speak, hoping for the wisdom he had never heeded as much as he should, and yet knowing it would not make the path before him any easier. His decision was already made, all he required now was the resolve to see it through, no matter the consequences.

“How’re the lads doing?”

The first words out of Balin’s mouth were a question, and drew Thorin’s thoughts back to their starting point, his expression as much a grimace as a smile when he answered, “Kíli wants to come with us.”

“Of course he does,” Balin murmured, and he _was_ smiling. “He’s a Durin. He wants to see this through to the very end.”

“It is more than that, I think.” He didn’t think, he _knew_. This was more than his youngest nephew’s usual stubborn streak, though that in and of itself had had a large part to play. Thorin had seen the truth in his eyes, and it had silenced the refusal forming on his lips. “He is afraid of being left behind again, should things go wrong.”

“Aye.” The smile vanished, and Balin’s face darkened with grim recollections. “You’ll take him with you, then?”

“He’ll ride with his mother.” Thorin shook his head. “He’s weak. It’s the safest place for him.”

“And Fíli?”

“Will come with me.”

“Can he make that climb?” Balin questioned. “With his leg…”

“He is determined to try.”

Perhaps it was unwise to have yielded to that determination, but Thorin had not been able to say no. To either of them. This was no longer about what was wise, but rather what was necessary. They needed to face this together, this mess they each felt they had played their own part in making, the way they _should_ have faced the dragon and all the trials that had followed Smaug’s death. So many mistakes had been made then, so many needless sacrifices, and now they all looked to find redemption in the very place that had been their downfall.

There was no wisdom in that.

Only hope.

“Thorin!”

It was a shout this time, and he turned to meet it, watching as Tyrth hastened up the slope towards them. His face was like thunder, but the grizzled miner rarely wore any other look, so Thorin thought nothing of it until he spoke.

“King Bard has come,” he reported as he drew level. “And he is not alone.”

Already moving back towards the camp, Thorin paused to cast his counsellor a questioning glance. “He brought men with him?”

He had not expected that. Not after the losses incurred at Laketown when Smaug was unleashed, and later, during the battle that had followed. Bard’s presence alone, his weight as the new King of Dale, that was what he had wished to make use of, not whatever military might the Men of Dale might still possess.

“No.” But Tyrth had not stopped scowling. Indeed, his expression was such one might have thought he had been offered a particularly unappetising plate, and was yet deciding whether to throw it back in their faces or not. “He brought the bloody Prince of Mirkwood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated Merry Christmas and New Year to you all.
> 
> Sorry once again for the massive delay in updates, and the equally massive delay in some cases in replying to PMs and comments. I had a great many good intentions so far as this chapter was concerned, all of which were swallowed up by the stresses of real life. Arguments at work about whether or not I needed to be informed of changes to my contracted hours before they were set in stone, the stress of Christmas, and a funeral nobody saw coming all threw my plans completely out the window, so that even when I had time to write, I didn't have the will to actually sit down and do it. I always feel bad coming back to a story after so long away, it's hard to get back into the swing of things, so I hope this chapter does justice to the story you have all stuck by faithfully so far.
> 
> All the best,  
> TTC


	51. Of Worries and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N-1: For a chapter that spent such a long time coming, this one is very much a non-event, in that nothing super important happens but it was required to bridge the gap anyway. Hopefully it is enough to satisfy you neglected folks whilst I take another... four? months to write the next chapter. I would also like to give a shout out to FlorideCuts on deviantart, whose lovely piece of fanart I stumbled across on Tumblr gave me the extra push I needed to get this chapter down on paper. Go check it out. It is beautiful. http://floridecuts.deviantart.com/art/Kili-Son-of-Dis-603193281
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 51  
**

**_Of Worries and Water_ **

They were preparing for war.

It was not a conclusion Fíli came to gladly. He would much rather have not come to it all. Unfortunately, there was no other way to describe the way the camp had changed in the last few hours, shifting from a state of restless quiet into a flurry of motion as entire families readied themselves for the fight. Only a few were properly outfitted – Ered Luin had never had a great many warriors to stand watch over its borders – but those who did not hold sword or axe made do with hammers meant for pounding forges or pans meant for roasting dinner. Many had lit torches as night descended, lights that spread out across the slope of the Overlook, a kinder flame than that which had last scorched its path across Erebor’s doorstep, but one that foretold its own doom.

He suspected it should have been heartening, to see the people of Ered Luin coming together to stand behind his uncle, and yet, after all they had been through, Fíli could not forget that such loyalty carried with it a price. The weight of a crown on a head that did not wear it, a burden carried not just on Thorin’s shoulders, but his own and Kíli’s as well. They were all leaders now, this crisis had made them so, and that meant bearing the responsibility that came with the title, no matter how heavy it might prove to be.

He had always known that was to be his future. That when Thorin died he would take his uncle’s place as ruler of Erebor’s exiles. But that was all he had ever expected. To be a king in name only, leader to a people whose ancestral home was lost to them forever, and who lived now in humbler surrounds. He had been raised to rule over Ered Luin one day, Erebor was another matter entirely.

“You look worried.”

Pulled from his thoughts he took a moment to breath again, relaxing muscles that had tensed without his knowledge. Allowing himself the luxury of a smile, he turned his head as his brother came to stand beside him, ignoring Kíli’s probe in favour of offering an observation of his own.

“You look cold.”

Tugging his coat a little tighter about himself, as if Fíli’s words had only added to the chill, Kíli shrugged. “Tuilinn said it would pass.”

Fíli nodded, and spoke none of the words worry placed on the tip of his tongue. Kíli had earned the right to make his own choices, even foolish ones. Besides, their borrowed elf healer had been just as displeased with his own decision to take part in the plan. He hardly had room to complain about Kíli’s involvement.

“By tomorrow,” he said aloud. “This will all be over.”

“No, it won’t,” Kíli corrected him, dark eyes serious. “This, right here, right now, it will never be over. Not so long as we live.”

Fíli let out another long, slow breath, then tentatively asked, “Does that still frighten you?”

“It does.” His brother did not deny it, huddling in his coat, looking pale and tired but determined nonetheless. “Although, any worry I might feel is lessened somewhat by the knowledge it would be hard to make a bigger mess of things than I already have.”

Fíli shot him a sharp look, and, even though Kíli was smiling, saw exactly what he expected to see. His brother was determined to own up to those of his actions that had helped their enemy seize power in Erebor, to make right a wrong he perceived as having been partially of his making. It was admirable and infuriating all at once, but Fíli knew nothing he said could change that. Kíli would have to come to terms with this in his own way, just as Fíli was facing his own demons.

Just as Thorin was facing his, mistakes that loomed as large as Smaug himself in the exiled King’s mind.

“He didn’t chase Legolas off.” Following his elder sibling’s thoughts as easily as he had his footsteps, Kíli offered a little optimism. “Even though Tyrth was quite willing to do it for him.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t do it in _spite_ of Thorin,” Fíli agreed. “He was gnashing his teeth through that entire conversation.”

“Best tell ma to keep them apart, I suppose,” Kíli mused. “We won’t be much of an intimidating sight if Tyrth is trying to pitch the Prince of Mirkwood into the river whilst we are making our appeal.”

Fíli’s grin was a fleeting thing, for the mention of his mother had brought back to mind the other concerns he had been dwelling on in the darkness. Dís was… was not herself. She had been incredibly focussed ever since Rivendell, ever since they began to guess at the true goings on within the Lonely Mountain, but after what had happened with Kíli… after Svala’s confirmation that Valin was behind Erebor’s suffering… It had only gotten worse.

Fíli knew why. He knew his mother saw in Valin the hands that had caused his father’s death. Those responsible had been caught, but the question remained of whether they had acted on their own accord, or been moved like pieces on a gameboard. It was unlikely they would ever know the answer, the truth, but Dís had decided she did not need it. She had made Valin the object of her hatred, responsible for Nali, responsible for nearly claiming Kíli’s life as well. She wanted him dead, and there was a part of Fíli that feared how far she would go to achieve that end.

No good had ever come of vengeance.

Or grudges.

“Why do you think he came?”

Kíli, whose attention had clearly been drifting as much as his elder brother’s, started slightly. “Who?”

“Prince Legolas.” Fíli waved a hand in the general direction of the elven prince. “Why allow Tuilinn to come? Why come himself?”

Because that had not been Thranduil’s doing. That much had been obvious the moment he realized Legolas had arrived in Tuilinn’s company, and had simply chosen to go first to Dale before inflicting his presence upon them. Whether or not Mirkwood’s King was even aware of his son’s whereabouts was debatable. Fíli had a feeling Gandalf had not bothered to ask Thranduil’s permission before borrowing his heir.

“We… have an understanding.” Kíli frowned, as though not quite certain himself. “Besides, what is happening in Erebor affects both Dale and Mirkwood as well. That is why Bard is here, and no doubt Legolas’ purpose is no different.”

Fíli was not so certain, but held his peace, content to embrace the silence that fell between them. A last chance for fears and doubts to make themselves known before battle was joined.

Battle. It was not meant to come to that, if all went to plan. _If_. He could not stop from thinking that they had never been so lucky. Even if they thwarted Valin, even if Dain and his people were freed without a single drop of blood being shed, there was still one more battle yet to be fought, his opponent an enchanting pile of gold… and himself.

He could not talk to Kíli about this. His younger sibling believed that that fight had already been won, a victory to follow defeat, and that was how it ended. Fíli was not convinced. Like Thorin, he knew he had yet to prove he had overcome that particular temptation, and, despite Kíli’s unflinching faith in him, he could not quite banish his worry that he would _not_ overcome it.

So many fears and doubts, and the night had scarce begun.

“Kíli, Fíli.” He turned at Thorin’s summons, burying his worries as deeply as they would go, making sure he met his uncle’s piercing gaze with nothing but certainty behind his own. “Come.” Thorin beckoned them with his hand. “Stand with me.”

Exchanging a curious glance with Kíli, Fíli scrambled up to stand beside Thorin on the higher ground. His mother was already there, dressed for battle, as were Dwalin and Balin. The Captain of Nordinbad was present as well, standing a little apart from the rest of the dwarves, halfway between them and King’s Bard delegation, if one could call it such. Bard had brought only the single guard that had been with him in Dale, with Legolas standing at his side and the silent Tuilinn a step behind with Gandalf. Tyrth and Lofi had joined the crowd amassing below the small rise; Fíli could just see their faces in the flickering torchlight, two among many.

“What’s going on?” Kíli asked, frowning at the assembling dwarves below them. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, lad,” Balin assured him gently. “But we’re marching into a fight here, and they know it. They want to hear their King give the command.”

That last was addressed at Thorin, who nodded, pausing to briefly squeeze Dís’ hand, then moving to stand at the forefront. At a motion from Balin, Fíli followed, dragging his brother along with him so that they stood, side by side, at Thorin’s back. Their uncle waited until the crowd before them had stilled, voices dropping to a mere murmur, and then he began to speak.

“It has been many years since Erebor’s people last stood in this place.” His voice was not loud, but in the hush that had fallen every word carried to every ear, along with every emotion behind it. “Many of us still have memories of that day, black as it was, when dragon fire burned all we had worked to build into ashes. What followed you all know, for the tale has been told often enough in every house in Ered Luin. Our history. Misfortune piled upon misfortune, loss upon loss, and blow upon blow. You faced starvation, the bite of bitter winters without any true shelter, the scorn of those who would once have paid a King’s Ransom for the fruits of your crafts. You stood at Moria with Death at your shoulder. You buried so many of your kin along the road, young and old alike, and wept until there were no tears left to shed. You scraped yourselves a life out of the ruins of a dead city, and started anew with no promise of protection from the malice that had stalked your every step westward, away from your home.”

He paused, eyes sweeping across the crowd, resting a little longer on the elders present, those who had experienced every tragedy Durin’s Folk had suffered since that wretched night. Fíli and Kíli were not the only ones too young to have no memory of Erebor, nor were they alone in having never strayed outside the safe borders of their home for so many years, though they had all heard the stories time and time again. Those who had escaped the dragon’s fire and lived through all that had followed it had wanted to spare their young the trials of their own lives, and had done so. Until now.

“So many sacrifices have been made.” Thorin picked up where he had left off, with not a whisper having been uttered in the interim. “So many losses endured, and yet now I am obliged to ask more of you when I would rather ask nothing at all. We have our homeland, won through the bravery of our kinsmen and the keen eye and steady hand of King Bard. We _have_ Erebor again, at long last, the home of our ancestors, the legacy of our people. But, in the midst of this time of victory, Erebor still casts a long shadow. A shadow we must not submit to. Someone within the mountain’s walls has seen fit to try and claim our triumph from us. To take what is rightfully ours and pay for it with the blood of _our_ kin.”

The silence was broken now, a ripple shifting back and forth across the gathering, words spoken too quietly to reach Fíli’s ears, though their tone was unmistakable.

“This cannot be allowed to stand.” There was fire in his uncle’s voice now, the same driving force that had gripped every word he had uttered all those months ago in Bag End. “It _will_ _not_ be allowed to stand. If our enemy seeks to frighten us away then they do not know our mettle, for Durin’s Folk do not flee from the field of battle, and we do not turn our backs upon our kinsmen. This ends now. It ends tonight, for we shall end it together. Let the traitors in the Lonely Mountain know that Erebor’s people are coming home, and we will not be turned aside!”

The ripple became a roar, rising and rising into what was both cheer and war cry. Thorin let the noise swell and die again, waiting patiently until the gathering stood quiet once more, and then continuing.

“I do not ask any of you to risk yourselves in this fight against your will. Erebor has claimed a blood toll from its people once already, and I cannot promise that it will not do so again. But this is our home, our kingdom, and if we do not fight for it then no one will. I do not command you to stand at my side, but I urge you to take back what is rightfully yours. Let it be known that Erebor belongs to Durin’s Folk, and we will not surrender it to anyone!”

It started as a chant this time, faint at first, but growing in strength as more and more voices joined in. Soon the words were unmistakable, Thorin's answer made clear.

“Du-bekâr!” They shouted. “Du-bekâr udâmai! Du-bekâr Yanâd Durinul!”

Pressing his fist to his heart in acknowledgement, Thorin stepped away from the edge, turning his nephews with an arm about each of their shoulders, so that they all three stood face to face with Dís. Perhaps something should have been said in that moment, some final words of wisdom shared between them, but no one felt inclined to do so. Instead, Dís stepped forward to join her brother and her sons in their circular embrace, pulling them all further in until they stood, heads bowed together in a silent testimony of all they had endured together, and all they had yet to face.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Bilbo had been in any number of absurd, compromising, and out and out terrifying situations since his decidedly Tookish decision to abandon the safety of his home. Leaving aside his obvious confrontation with a _dragon_ , there was his struggle with his stubborn dwarvish mount, an acute lack of pocket handkerchiefs, trolls, wargs, orcs, and forbidding looking elves who made one forget to mind one’s tongue and then nearly frightened one to death by holding a stern look long enough for one to think they had seriously offended. And all of that before he had even left Rivendell! He considered himself a seasoned adventurer now, a trusted comrade-in-arms. Although, right now, he believed Fate might be taking the latter term a little too literally.

“Well, now, Master Burglar.” Appearing none the worse for having borne the brunt of one hurtling hobbit, Thorin’s namesake offered him a wry grin, and did not bother to set him on his feet before adding, “It is so kind of you to drop in.”

“You certainly know how to make a dramatic entrance,” one of Stonehelm’s companions added as Dain’s son set Bilbo back onto his feet with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “If you have as much of a talent for exits I have no doubt we shall all be free within the hour.”

Bilbo did not bother coming up with a response to the young dwarf’s words, his eyes flying upwards to the ledge from which he had tumbled, looking for any sign of Tárr. He half expected to see the scarred dwarf leering down at them in triumph, but there was no sign of life above him, not even a shadow cast across the top of the reservoir. Odd, that, because Bilbo remembered what Tárr’s orders had been. Were Valin and his men not yet ready to make their escape with Stonehelm as their prize? What were they waiting for?

“For my cousin,” Stonehelm answered, and Bilbo realised he had uttered that last question aloud. “And Lady Dís. Valin has but the one trap to spring. He will not play his hand until every scion of Durin’s line stands in the path of his hammer.”

“ _Traitor_.” One of the other youngsters, a dwarrowdam whose intricate braids were more undone than not, hissed the word. “King Dain will have his head.”

Her words were met with a murmur of agreement from the others near enough to hear, or old enough to understand. Bilbo still could not quite see clearly in the darkness, but some of those shapes were too small to be anything but children. Children Valin intended to drown, _would_ drown, if Bilbo did not find them a way out of this mess.

“My father will not be able to do anything so long as we remain down here,” Stonehelm answered her ire levelly, but there was anger in his eyes, too. A cold, dangerous sort of fury. For a moment Bilbo almost pitied Valin, then he remember what the councilman had done, and swiftly banished the notion. “Mister Bofur’s stories would have us believe you are an expert on the matter of escapes, Master Baggins. We have had little success ourselves, but perhaps with your help we might endeavour to do something useful?”

There was a downside to having a reputation it turned out. Bilbo tried not to dwell on that as he nodded absently, already turning his eyes to examine the exact nature of their prison. The reservoir Valin had used to contain his captives was not overly large, not compared to its greater cousins, and the number of dwarves packed inside it made the space smaller still. Bilbo had to weave his way through the crowd to examine the walls, noting as he did so that even the youngest of those present were watching him in solemn silence, any sign of panic or fear wholly absent.

It did not take him long to establish what Stonehelm and his fellows had no doubt already known, that there were no faults or flaws in the walls they could exploit, no secret seams they might pry open, and as for climbing out… Well, Bilbo’s fall had told him just how far down they were, and without rope they could not hope to make it to the top.

At least, a hobbit could not. But these were dwarves, and Bilbo remembered seeing the members of the Company clamber one atop the other to reach anything that eluded the reach of one. There had been an ease to what they did then; A practiced sort of synchronicity. This was not quite the same as that, but a chance was a chance, and common sense had rarely played a part in any plan Bilbo had helped carry out thus far.

“Alright,” he said, decision made as he turned back to the expectantly waiting dwarves. “I have an idea.”

As if a switch had been thrown his fellow prisoners all turned at once, crowding around him to listen eagerly as he explained his plan. More than one of them was giving him an incredulous look by the time he was done, but Bilbo kept his focus on Stonehelm, who was looking more thoughtful than disbelieving.

“It might be possible,” he conceded, quieting the unsettled muttering that had been filling the silence til he spoke. “Some of the children are small enough we’d be able to bear their weight so long as the foundation was sturdy enough.”

“You’ve lost your senses!” Bjarni exclaimed. “Even the builders don’t go higher than three. Not without a harness.”

“Well, then,” Stonehelm answered him, and Bilbo recognised the stubborn light in his eye. He had seen it on many a Son of Durin before. “We shall just have to improve on their technique, shan’t we?”

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Fíli could remember quite clearly the day when he, along with his brother and their Hobbit friend, had stumbled across the secret path that led to the Hidden Door. Hopes had been low in the dwarven camp at the time, the three of them the only ones who seemed capable of mustering any enthusiasm for a quest cursed by a swiftly dwindling chance of success. He remembered the excitement they had shared in finding the path up the mountainside, and how eagerly they had hastened to share the good news with their companions.

What he had not remembered, it turned out, was how steep and narrow a climb it was.

He had not been so foolish as to turn down Dwalin's offer of aid, letting the war master bear the majority of his weight on his bad side, but edging up that slim walkway two abreast was nearly impossible, which left them shuffling along in an awkward sort of sidestep that had Fíli appreciating with new understanding Bombur's reluctance to tread the same path.

Despite the difficulty of it they made it to the top unscathed, and Fíli shifted his hold from Dwalin to the rock-face as Thorin stepped forward to rap lightly on the invisible entrance. For a breath nothing happened, then the door swung silently inwards and open, revealing the tunnel they had fled down all those months ago to rescue their Burglar, and a dwarf wearing the livery of Dain's Royal Guard.

“Fengari,” Thorin greeted the stranger by name. “The Lady Svala returned safely, then?”

“Valin suspects nothing, yet.” Fengari nodded. ”But, please, hurry. We are short on time.”

Nodding his understanding, Thorin slipped inside. Balin and Dwalin followed, and Fíli hastened to do the same, leaving Bain to bring up the rear of their small group. Fengari closed the door behind him, and it was only as he did so that Fíli realised the guardsman was not alone. A younger dwarf, dressed in a similar but simpler uniform, stood holding a torch aloft, his mouth half agape as he stared at Thorin with something between shock and awe.

“Is something wrong, lad?” Balin asked kindly, and received a stammered response.

“They said he was dead!”

“He's not,” Fíli interjected, and was graced with a look of equal shock in return. “I promise.”

“They said you were dead too.”

Fíli grinned, but was saved from making a response by Fengari.

“Do not mind Lnolir,” he said. “Has more braids than brains, that one.” Ignoring the glare that earned him, he flicked his hand at his younger comrade. “Well, go on then. Lead the way.”

Finally regathering his wits, Lnolir hastened to obey, lighting the way ahead of them as they started their descent into the mountain. He kept on glancing back uncertainly as they moved, his lips moving as if he would like to ask further questions but thought better of it every time. Fíli might have taken pity on him and explained their presence, but he was preoccupied with keeping his gait steady enough to match the pace set by him comrades, and trying at the same time to listen to the conversation taking place between Thorin and Fengari.

“I spoke to Gorin as you instructed,” the guardsman was saying. “The rest of your Company should be freed by the time we make it through the treasury, but there is a problem. Despite our best efforts we still have no idea where Valin is keeping his hostages, and, worse still, he has doubled the watch on all pathways to the forges. If we cannot reach them before he realises the display at the gates is a ruse…”

“We will,” Thorin answered firmly, and if he felt doubt not a shred of it showed in his voice. “There must be another way in. There always is.”

“The tunnels are watched,” Fíli interjected, hopping a few steps to catch up with them. “What about the sluiceways?”

“I do not know.” The guardsman frowned. “But I would wager not. With the amount of water he has trapped in the reservoirs, one would have to be mad to dare that path. Besides, it would be a tight fit for anyone to climb up them.”

“I can do it.” It was a bold statement, and it earned him a sharp look from more than just Thorin. Undeterred, he elaborated, “Kíli and I explored the mountain thoroughly after Smaug was killed. I’ve been up them before. I can make the climb.”

“Fíli,” Thorin said warningly. “Your leg…”

“I have two hands and another,” he said stubbornly. “And Lnolir is small enough to come with me so I won’t be on my own.”

“It’s not safe,” Dwalin argued, scowling. “One of us should do it.”

“You won’t fit,” Fíli insisted, not turning from his uncle’s held gaze. “Thorin, we can’t risk _not_ trying this. If I can get in unseen I can destroy whatever deathtrap Valin has and take away his power without him even knowing it. You wanted to resolve this without any further loss of life, if it was possible. It is. You just need to let me try.”

Thorin hesitated for a long moment.

“You are certain,” he said at last. “That you can make that climb?”

“Absolutely.” He would do it if it killed him. Which, it might. But he preferred not to focus on the chance he would drown before he ever made it to the top.

“Very well, then.” Thorin gave a curt nod, then swung about to focus on Lnolir, who tried and failed to shrink away from the sudden attention. “You will accompany my nephew and see that no harm comes to him. Understand?”

“Y-yes, my lord… my king… I…”

Suppressing a smile, Fíli reached out to give the young guard a reassuring pat on the arm.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “He won’t be able to do anything to you if we both drown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N-2: For clarifications sake, I would just like to remind all my fellow questers that this story is, and always has been, an amalgamation of book and movie canon. As such the Hidden Path leading to the Secret Door is NOT the crazy staircase up a statue we saw in the films, but rather the cleverly hidden track from the book itself.
> 
> Also, the character Lnolir belongs to Toastytoastie over on Tumblr. I’m just borrowing him for a minute or two. ;-)


	52. The Hammer Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dropped here without comment. The mistakes are free. ;-)
> 
> Enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 52  
**

**_The Hammer Falls_ **

This was not the first time Kíli had seen Erebor besieged. That had been months ago, when a fight for wealth had turned into a fight for survival, with fewer victors than dead. He had stood behind Erebor’s walls then, staring out over the camp outside until he himself had become a part of it. Now he was the outsider, the enemy with an army at his back, looking up at the wall upon which he had once stood as others’ looked down. It was a strange feeling, made stranger still by the allies that rode to his left and right. But strange feelings carried no weight against the duty placed upon his shoulders. He was where it bid him to be, and all that remained now was to see it through to whatever end.

Even so, a part of him wished he had gone with Fíli and their uncle. He didn’t like the idea of being separated. In truth, he _hated_ it. It was too close an echo to the past, and what good had ever come of them dividing their ranks? But his fears had not presented a stronger argument than logic, and he could not deny the fact his presence would make a greater impact here. Thorin and Fíli were still unknown to their enemy, nobody would notice if they were missing, but he had marched through those gates with Dís and lived.

Valin was unlikely to rejoice in that, and they needed to keep his focus here, on them, as long as possible.

“Dain!”

The leading column came to a halt just out of reach of the sentries’ arrows, but Dís did not show any such caution, calling for her cousin in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, or at least make Fidget dance a little. Kíli tightened his grip on the reins, calming his mount as his mother urged hers forward, moving beyond the safety of her guard and ignoring Inga’s disapproving glare as she rode right to the foot of the wall and into the range of the archers who stood atop it.

“Let he who would call himself King Beneath the Mountain come forth. Erebor’s people demand his presence!”

Silence followed, brief and tense. Kíli watched the braziers on the wall flare, listened to the clank of shifting armour, and wondered if Fíli and Thorin had made it inside the mountain yet.

And then a voice answered.

“Erebor’s people, dear cousin?” Dain lent against the parapet, his face silhouetted by the flickering torches, his voice thick with black amusement. “Or you? And is it my presence you demand or my head? I am not convinced you do not have the two confused.”

“The nature of our business with you depends on how well we like your replies,” Dís retorted without humour. “Those you have offered so far have been far from pleasing.”

“And so you feel the need to bring an army to my doorstep?” Dain waved a hand to encompass the crowd barely hidden by the night’s embrace. “Hardly the best way to open discussions.”

Dís’ response was scathing. “Considering the last time we spoke you poisoned my son, I do not think you have any right to criticize.”

Dain straightened slightly, placing both his hands atop the wall and leaning forward to stare down at his cousin. “You know full well I had nothing to do with that.”

“Just as you know Dale had nothing to do with Lord Áfast’ tragic end.” Bard stepped forward, his words a good deal calmer than Dís’, but no less pointed. “Yet truth did not sway your tongue as you bandied blame.”

“Truth?” The rebuttal did not come from Dain, but from a newcomer, marching his way across the parapet to join his lord. Kíli had only set eyes on Valin once, when the councilman had been questioning his sanity before the assembled representatives of the seven, but he recognised him at once. “The truth, King Bard, is that Lord Áfast died after consuming _your_ wine. The people of Dale are guilty of murder, their voices will not be heard here. As for this display of force, Lady Dís… send your army away. Only then will my King hear your plea.”

“Has my cousin forfeit his tongue, then?” Dís snapped back. “Or do you now act as Erebor’s ruler, Valin?“

“No King worthy of the name would lower himself to dealing with such rabble,” Valin said with lofty dismissal. “You are all guilty of treason, your allies of inciting war.”

“Nobody is speaking of war here but you, Lord Valin,” Bard answered before Dís could overcome her anger. Kíli found his eyes flicking back and forth between his mother and the speakers, worried about where the danger would eventuate. “Dale seeks only to clear its name of any wrongdoing, with Mirkwood’s envoy here as a witness.”

“And as to treason.” Dís had found her voice again. “The throne Dain guards like a rabid dog rightfully belongs to my son. ” She lifted a hand, beckoning him forward, and Kíli nudged Fidget out of the gathering and into the braziers' circle of illumination. “One cannot commit treason against oneself!”

For the first time Valin hesitated, unable to hide his shock, or his chagrin, if one were looking for it. Kíli said nothing, sitting straight and steady in his saddle as he let his presence speak for him, his eyes sweeping the wall and observing the confusion and unease taking root in Dain's men.

“The Line of Thror endures, then,” Valin said at last, his wits regained and his venom restored. “That changes nothing! You seem to have forgotten that Prince Kíli surrendered his claim to that throne months ago, before witnesses. To return now, in force, changes nothing.”

Dís was undeterred. “I rather think it will change a great deal if we camp upon your doorstep for the next few months.”

“A siege? And what will that prove? That your son is a ruler willing to see his people starve?”

“Some of those people we could do without.”

Kíli winced, and wondered briefly at the wisdom of allowing his mother to lead the charge. Then again, he was not sure anyone could have stopped Dís if they tried.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Svala’s voice cut through the shocked silence as she joined her husband upon the wall, casting Valin a look of disdain as she added, “You, I expected little better of, but I had hoped the rest of us could retain some semblance of the civility befitting of rulers. State your demands, Lady Dís, King Bard. We will hear them, and answer, and let the Prince of Mirkwood bear witness if he must.”

Valin looked no more pleased by the interruption than Dís, but both subsided, Dís withdrawing back into the fold as Lofi stepped forward and made a great show of unrolling the scroll he had spent the better part of the evening composing. With just as much ceremony, he slipped a pair of spectacles from his pocket and perched them with deliberate preciseness on the tip of his nose. Having adjusted them to a position that satisfied his apparent need for perfection, he then took several long moments to clear his throat and quietly mumble a few of the lines he had written as if preparing for a great recitation.

Watching all this, Kíli was hard pressed to keep his mouth pressed into the solemn line his role required. And he was not the only one. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the smile playing around the edges of Legolas' mouth, and the peak of Gandalf's hat was tugged suspiciously low. Bard was affecting great disinterest, but his eyes betrayed him even as his one-man escort attempted to hide his own amusement.

A glance at Kíli's mother, however, showed no such struggle. Dís' face was carven stone, her eyes a fire that threatened to burn the object of their attention without the need to lift a finger. Smile fading, Kíli guided Fidget to stand a little closer to her side, searching for the right words to break through her deadly focus.

He had not yet found any he liked when Lofi gave a final few harrumphs and returned to the scroll's beginning, holding it aloft with all the dramatic flourish of a royal herald about to make the most important pronouncement of his life.

“First,” he began...

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Thorin Stonehelm was not known for his patience. Despite the fact his father's level-headedness was somewhat legendary and his mother was considered quite reasonable by the standards of her Firebeard brethren, he had, according to his various tutors’ learned opinion, taken after neither of them. Dain had blamed it on his namesake, grumbling under his breath on numerous occasions that his son had taken after their exiled King a little too well for anyone’s peace of mind. But his father was known for his grumbling, and the future Lord of the Iron Hills had never paid him much mind.

Until he'd been thrown down this dark hole with a fair number of his brethren and been forced to wait. And wait. And _wait_.

It wasn't that they hadn't tried to escape. They had, many times, using every idea that sprang into their heads. But after so many failed attempts hope had begun to dwindle, frustration had set in, and he'd been forced to accept that there was nothing to do but wait for rescue. He loathed waiting. He loathed waiting for rescue even more.

He wasn't quite certain yet how he felt about a Hobbit falling on his head before coming up with the most ridiculous plan to free them imaginable. Although, to be fair, Bjarni's scheme of smashing their way out through solid stone without any tools hadn't been much better.

He almost shook his head at the recollection, then remembered he was under strict orders to stay absolutely still, lest he send any of his fellow tower blocks tumbling to the floor below. As one of the oldest there, he had been ordered to the bottom of their impromptu tower, standing with four of his fellow prisoners to either side of him, balancing five more across the breadth of their joined shoulders, and four more above that on a precarious lean that placed the trio they bore against the wall.

The leaning tower had been Bjarni's invention, as he invoked his experience as a mason's son and insisted going straight up the wall would end with a fair number of them on the floor before they came anywhere near the top. Instead, under his direction, the first row had started a couple of strides out, and it had not been until the fourth row began to send them swaying that the wall had been used as a prop. No doubt it had stabilised them more than going straight up the wall would have, but having a weight on one's shoulders that refused to sit balanced in the centre did not exactly make the burden lighter, and he was certain he was not the only one who felt the strain.

Despite the grumbling being thrown his way, however, Bjarni refused to be hurried, sending the next dwarf up only when he felt his masterpiece was not in danger of buckling under the extra weight. So it all came back to patience in the end. To waiting. He excelled at neither, and almost wished Tárr would come back and discover what they were up to. Not that that would help their bid for freedom, but at least he'd be able to _move_ instead of standing here and hoping death did not find them before they managed to crawl out of this hole.

Death delivered at the hands of a traitor.

He had known Valin all his life. The dwarf was his father's oldest and most trusted counselor, a mentor and teacher to himself, and… and it had all been false. Lies. Every shred of trust offered to him undeserved, and thrust now back into the face of the family who had all but welcomed him as one of their own.

“Not long now,” Bilbo offered cheerfully, apparently sensing his darkening mood, and only slightly mistaking its cause. He fumbled, then, struggling over the correct form of address. “Uh, Prince Thorin?”

“'Rin' will do me just fine, Master Baggins,” he answered with a strained grin. ”Makes it less confusing that way. Or...”

He forgot sometimes, that his name was no longer something he shared. That the only reason he was here right now was because his father wore a crown meant for someone else. The memory still hit hard, despite the old grievances between their two families and the months that had passed since it happened, and he found himself finishing on a far graver note than he had intended.

“Or... it did. Before.”

Bilbo looked confused at his sudden solemnity, then realisation dawned on his face, followed by something like excitement. The halfing opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get even one word out they were interrupted.

“Master Hobbit!” Bjarni called, and Bilbo turned to look at him questioningly. The mason's son simply smiled, gesturing with one hand at the tower he had constructed out of his kinsmen. “Your turn.”

Bilbo paled slightly, his voice coming out a little high as he said, “ _Me_?”

“It makes sense, Master Baggins.” Rin nodded. ”You're lighter than most of us here, but still taller than the children. Besides.” He smiled, trying for encouraging. ”This was your plan. It seems only fitting you should be the keystone.”

“I suppose.” Bilbo did not look convinced, but he approached Bjarni anyway, waiting for the dwarf to give him a boost onto the wavering tower of interlocking limbs.

“Up you go.” Bjarni lifted the Hobbit high enough to get a decent foothold, then offered a mild caution. “Just mind where you're putting your feet now, Master Baggins,”

Bilbo took a moment to get his balance, one foot planted on Rin's shoulder, the other on that of the dwarf a space over, and then he began to climb, carefully but steadily upwards. It did not take him long to vanish from Rin's sight, and then he was left to simply stand again. Stand and wait and learn the patience his tutors had not been able to drill into him despite decades of attempting just that.

But, well, he supposed there was never a bad time to learn something new.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Fíli had first set foot inside Erebor immediately after it had spent years and years in the keeping of a dragon. He remembered the smell, the decayed stone, the ruined bridges, and the petrified corpses of those who had not made it outside when the fires came. It had been a dismal, dreary, grief-inducing place, and yet it had never felt so eerie as it did now.

Perhaps it was because the signs of age and ruin were no longer apparent. Collapsed corridors had been rebuilt, halls restored to their former glory, bridges made whole once more, and yet the mountain stood as silent and empty as a tomb. A rather striking reminder it might yet become one if they did not succeed.

Ignoring the shiver that rippled down his spine at the thought, Fíli quickened his pace slightly, grateful for the fact he was not alone in Erebor's dark depths. Lnolir was a jittery, uncertain presence at his right hand, whilst Dwalin stolidly paced a step behind on his left, ready to lend a hand the moment they encountered another flight of stairs. Fíli had had enough of those to last him a lifetime, but he was fairly certain they had descended as far as they needed to. Now it was simply a matter of climbing back up again.

“There are the sluiceways.”

Forgetting his nervousness for the moment, Lnolir started forward with torch in hand, revealing the row of openings that would lead them to the forges above. Fíli paid them little mind, though, slightly preoccupied by the abyss that separated the walkway he was standing on from the lip of the tunnels he needed to climb. It wasn’t that wide, designed to direct the water from the sluiceways to the channels below that would carry it out of the mountain. He and Kíli had both leapt across it without a thought for the drop last time, though their mother would no doubt have given them a tongue lashing had she seen them risking their necks in such a fashion, but that was _before_ , a word Fíli was coming to hate with a dislike nearly as vehement as his new argument with stairs.

“Fíli?” Dwalin spoke, making his name a question, and Fíli straightened at once. This had been his plan, after all, and he had sworn to Thorin that he could do this. He couldn’t let him down.

Offering no verbal response to the warmaster’s concern, he took a step forward, sweeping the row of sluiceways thoughtfully. Some of them were still running, a slow trickle that would do little to alleviate the pressure above, save to stop it breaking through its bonds before its jailors were ready. He paid those tunnels no mind, turning to the drier paths, those that were less likely to end in them either drowned or dashed to pieces at the bottom of a chasm.

“Lnolir.”

The guardsman turned at once, all but jumping to attention, and Fíli stifled a sigh, wishing he had foregone his earlier teasing and taken the time to set Lnolir at ease properly. Too late for that now.

“You’ll need to go first,” he continued. “We’ll take the one on the far right. It should lead to one of the smaller reservoirs, which will still be empty if we’re lucky.”

He paused, gesturing for Dwalin to hand over the rope slung across his shoulder, an acquisition they had made on their way down to the lower levels. Dwalin had been worried that detour would betray their presence to some of Valin’s spies, but the mountain had been deserted at every turn. Fíli wished he could take comfort in that, but truthfully it only increased his unease.

“Tie this around your waist.” Taking the rope from Dwalin he passed it to the guardsman. “Fasten it to something solid when you get to the top. Be careful. We don’t know if Valin has sentries stationed around the forges or not.”

Lnolir nodded solemnly, exchanging his torch for the proffered rope and sparing a moment to loop it carefully around his waist so it wouldn’t tangle in his legs. That done he backed up a few steps, took a deep breath, and then made a running leap across the chasm. He landed safely enough, finding, as Kíli and Fíli had before him, ample handholds in the chiseled stone. Wedging himself in the entrance, he uncoiled the line enough to hurl the end back across the gap for Dwalin to grab a hold of, and then he began to climb.

Watching the rope in Dwalin’s hand twitch with each movement Lnolir made inside the narrow pipeway, Fíli caught himself counting the minutes that passed, his mind wandering to his family. To Thorin, forging a more direct route to their destination in readiness for Fíli’s signal it was safe to advance, and to Kíli and his mother, outside Erebor’s walls with an army at their back as they played at starting a war. To Dain, who had done his best to keep his people safe when Valin had ripped all real power from his hands, and to his cousin, Thorin’s namesake, who he knew less well than he might have wished, and whose life was one of many at risk should they fail.

When, he wondered inwardly, had a simple quest to slay a dragon and reclaim a lost kingdom become so complicated? Probably not the best question to ask, on reflection, but he was saved the need from answering it when the rope in Dwalin’s hands suddenly jerked tight, once, twice, and then a third time for good measure.

“He made it,” he said, inserting a cheerful note into his words he didn’t exactly feel as he added, “Perhaps this is not such a terrible idea after all.”

Dwalin gave him a look that told him he wasn’t at all convincing, and then insisted on tying the rope about Fíli’s waist himself, as if Thorin’s heir could not even be trusted to fasten a knot properly. Only once he was convinced the bindings were secure did he step back to the edge, taking a firm grip on the young dwarf that would one day be his king, and tossing him like a sack of potatoes across the gap.

Fíli landed on his good leg and immediately snapped both hands out to steady himself, locking his fingers into the crevices in the stone. Relatively certain he was not going to topple backwards, he spared a moment to toss Dwalin a triumphant grin over his shoulder, before directing his attention back to the task at hand.

It was not an easy climb. The sluiceway was a tight fit, even for Fíli, leaving him little room to move his limbs without banging an elbow or a knee against stone.   He wasn't so much climbing his way up as moving from one wedged position to the other, not so easy with one leg out of commission. The rope helped, he hadn't had the luxury of one the last time he had attempted this ascent, but he was still utterly breathless and in no small amount of pain by the time he reached the top and needed to twist himself around to reach up for the lip of the thankfully empty reservoir.

Working to quiet his breathing he looped the rope firmly around both hands, then slowly edged his way backwards out of the opening. He slipped halfway, and for one horrible moment he was swinging above empty space, the stone beneath him too far away to see. He swung back just as quickly, hitting the wall with enough force his breath momentarily left his body, but his grip didn't falter and the ground was not growing any closer. In fact the distance between him and it was increasing as Lnolir hauled him up, inch by inch, until he was able to crawl his way over the rim and collapse onto solid ground.

“Are you alright?” Lnolir hovered over him, concern painted across his face.

“Fighting fit,” Fíli assured him, still a little winded, and outright lying. Sitting up, he took a moment to free himself from the rope, then handed it to Lnolir to coil, a convenient distraction to keep the guardsman occupied whilst he regained his feet. It wasn't his most graceful moment, but he managed it, and was already scanning his surroundings by the time Lnolir was tying off the end of the line.

The room they now found themselves in was not part of the main forges, but rather a smaller crafting room that joined onto the larger via a low, arched doorway. Fíli could just hear a distant, steady roar echoing through the opening, and, exchanging an uneasy glance with Lnolir, he began to creep his way forward. Instinct made his hand close over one of his many knives as he moved, even as his mind baulked at the idea of drawing it against one of his own ilk. They were the enemy, beyond all doubt, and yet…

They reached the doorway together, adhering to the wall on either side of it, and leaning around to peer out into the chamber beyond almost in tandem. Fíli lingered long enough to give the whole room a thorough sweep, then ducked back behind the cover of the wall, holding up the hand not gripping his knife and raising three fingers. Lnolir gave a jerky nod, confirming Fíli’s count, and then waited for his command.

Three. It could be all the men Valin had down here, or it could only be a handful. And, whether an army or not, those three stood between them and the deathtrap they had been sent to disarm. The forges were not lit, which offered them some advantage through the lack of light, but dashing from cover to cover was a risky move, all the more so because he wasn’t at all certain he was capable of dashing anywhere.

“What do we do now?” Lnolir whispered, voice pitched low enough so as not to echo.

Fíli hesitated, weighing the risks against the knowledge they would not get a second chance at this, and then Fate made the decision for him.

“To arms, to arms!”

The words were bellowed, audible even over the din of crashing water, and Fíli started, drawing a second blade as he braced for the consequences of discovery. But the shouts were drawing further away, not nearer, sentences splintered by the distance so that he could only make out a few words. One was enough to seize his attention, and he forgot caution as he dived through the opening and set off in pursuit of those who had vacated it a moment before.

Because that one word had been ‘ _escaped’._

He made it maybe ten steps before his body felt inclined to remind him running was not within his current capabilities. Lnolir was there when he stumbled, tucking himself beneath his prince’s shoulder in a single, smooth movement that barely slowed them at all. Relying on the guardsman to bear half his weight, Fíli pressed onwards, cursing the stairwell that rose before them even as he refused to slacken his pace.

It had slackened in spite of him before they made it to the top. His chest was burning with almost as much vehemence as the muscles in his leg, and Lnolir’s breathing was only a little less strained as they stumbled up the last step together to where the source of the roar they had heard below continued to beat against its bonds. Unfortunately, that was not the only thing lying in wait, and in his haste Fíli had forgotten his caution.

“Tárr!”  

Their presence was noticed immediately, and that single cry of warning was all it took for them to suddenly become the focus of attention. Slipping off Lnolir’s shoulder Fíli readied the throwing knives in his hands, still feeling that horrible _wrench_ inside his chest at the fact his enemy was his own people. Beside him Lnolir also drew his sword, tense as a bowstring, but of the five dwarves that stood facing them not a single one moved.

There were some advantages, it turned out, in being thought dead.

Mutters broke out on his left and right, but Fíli kept his eyes on the scarred dwarf standing directly across from him, nearest to the levers controlling the caged beast whose roar echoed all around them. He was the ringleader, that much was clear from the way the other four all turned to him now, awaiting an explanation, an answer, an order. Their shock would only last for so long, Fíli knew, and so he sought to buy more time. Time enough to think of a way to ward off catastrophe.

“You cannot have been so foolish as to think the Line of Durin would be so easily broken,” he stated boldly, drawing all eyes back to him. “Or that your treachery would go unchallenged.”

“And so you rise from the grave to punish us?” Enraged, the dwarf – Tárr, his fellow had named him – clenched his fists at his sides, his marred visage twisting as he spat venom at the young prince. “You think you are so righteous. You think you have a right to _judge_ us, just as your ancestors did when they condemned us to a life worse than death!” He moved a step forward, a step towards Fíli, and away from the switches. “You call me a traitor, princeling, but the blood of my people runs in your veins alongside that of Durin’s Folk, yet you ignore the call of your duty to us. Your father’s duty.”

“My father would never have approved of this!” Fíli flared, knowing he was playing into Tárr’s hands, yet unable to help himself. “He was loyal to–”

“To what?” Tárr interrupted him, mocking. “A line of murderous Kings who feasted on the deaths of their own people once they were done with mine? _We_ built Ered Luin, we seized ourselves a home and it was _ours_. But when Durin’s Folk came, beggars upon our doorstep, Nali refused to turn them away. Refused to repay like with like. Instead he grovelled to your uncle, to your mother. He let the people of Erebor take all, and when we came to him, when we pleaded with him to see reason, to demand retribution, he _refused_ us. Our leader, our deliverer, refused us. Nali was blind, but Valin saw truth. He showed us how we might seek justice.”

“There is no justice to be had.” Fíli insisted, fighting to keep his voice steady under the onslaught of sheer vitriol being thrown his way. “Those who passed your sentence did so centuries ago. You cannot hold Thorin accountable for that!”

“I blame you all!” Tárr roared, his eyes alight with a fire that burned, bright and dangerous. “Nali could not see it, would not see it, and he paid the price of his folly. Do not think that I will hesitate to end you because you are his kin. I did not stay my hand then and I shall not now!”

“It was you?” Fíli reeled, the world pitching wildly beneath his feet. Lnolir placed a hand against his back to steady him, but Fíli barely noticed, his vision narrowing down to a single point as his eyes narrowed and his heart pounded against his ribcage. “You killed him?”

“He tried to stop us.” Tárr was nearly raving now, backing away as Fíli blindly advanced. “But he will not. He will not stop us. And neither will you.” His head snapped up suddenly, his eyes flashing as a wild smile split his face. “You will not rob us of our vengeance!”

“No!”

Horror struck through the rage gripping him, and Fíli’s arms snapped out as if he could stretch across the distance and wrench the traitor away. Too late, as Tárr reached the lever, wrapped his hands around it, and pulled.


	53. Fears of Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which Thorin broods a lot, Bilbo wins a tug-of-war, Fili bites off more than he can chew, and Kili discovers that Dis on the warpath is a truly terrifying thing.
> 
> Read and enjoy,
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 53**

**_Fears of Madness  
_ **

The guardroom in which they had taken shelter was not overly large. It measured no more than twenty paces across and the same again in width, a distance Thorin had memorised after his third journey from one bland wall to its equally uninteresting counterpart. The stone was smooth, without even the scars of the dragon's occupation to draw one's eye, and Thorin was left with nothing to do but count his steps as he travelled back and forth.

It was proving to be a poorer distraction than he might have hoped, and he was tempted to join Fengari and Bain's anxious watch at the door, held back only by the knowledge it was his duty to retain some semblance of calm. Calm that was only a pretence, for his peace of mind had abandoned him some time ago, when he allowed his heir out of his sight and doubts and fears crept in to take the place of his steely resolve.

He should never have let Fíli go. Not alone, save for the protection of Fengari's young guardsman. Not with his injuries still hampering him. Not with all they knew of how far their enemy was willing to go to seize vengeance. It had been a mistake to concede to Fíli's reasoning. A mistake to burden him with such a task when he was still recovering from the aftermath of the last quest Thorin had dragged him into. A mistake to put the reclamation of the mountain before the lives of one of his nephews yet again.

He missed a step at the thought, because was that not what he dreaded most? That the mistakes he was making now would mirror those he had made then. That he could not trust himself, for even when his every action seemed reasonable to him, others would judge differently. _Know_ differently. That he would fail this test again, and bring not salvation, but doom.

He had sworn it would not come to that. He had learnt his lesson the last time, when he had sooner gambled with lives than gold and nearly destroyed his family in the process. Or, he thought he had. What if that was all it was? A promise made with all sincerity but kept only inside his head?

 _'A true King would not ask this of us.'_ Frerin had once said those words, right before Thror's attempt to reclaim a homeland for their people cost him his life. But was Thror's decision so very different from that which Thorin was making now? He told himself that it was. Valin and his ilk were a festering poison that needed to be swept away. Erebor was a stronghold in the east they could not afford to lose. His people needed a home that would finally offer them true safety.

They were all reasonable, sound causes to commit to his current course of action, and yet they were all overshadowed, overwhelmed by the fact he was risking not just his own life, but also those of his close kin to see the task done. Thor's reasons had no doubt sounded just as legitimate… in his own mind.

Frerin had died for that surety; was Thorin sending Fíli to the same fate?

"He'll be alright," Balin spoke from his seat on the floor as Thorin marched past him for the umpteenth time, the only one of them to seem at all at ease. "He knows how to handle himself."

"Does he?" Thorin knew better than to question Balin's ability to read him so easily, merely accepting it and moving on. He lowered his voice as he answered, trying to keep their conversation from the room's other two occupants. "I sent him in there alone, Balin. What if–"

"Alone, was he?" His old advisor pinned him with a knowing look. "And what was Lnolir for, then, hm? Decoration? Fíli knows what he is about, Thorin. Have some faith in the lad."

"It is not Fíli I–"

He trailed off, unwilling to air his doubts aloud, though they clawed at his chest seeking an outlet. But how could he tell Balin that, even now, he feared he would heed the call of the mountain's treasure over that of its people? Or did fearing it mean he was already falling? Focussing on what might come to pass in regards to Erebor's hoard instead of the crisis he stood amidst now? He did not know. He did not know if he would ever know, or if the fear would hang forever over his head until it consumed him as surely as the dragon sickness once had.

"We are with you, Thorin." Balin knew regardless of Thorin's silence, and swiftly set about stopping his spiralling thoughts in their tracks. "We will not let it come to that, and neither will you."

He did not deserve the faith so many still placed in him, and he did not understand the conviction with which Balin uttered every word. Was it blind trust? Desperate hope? Or was it merely the knowledge that, sickness or no sickness, Valin must be dealt with now, and all other troubles must wait.

There was no comfort, or calm, to be drawn from such thoughts, and in frustration Thorin resumed his pacing. To his relief he was almost instantly interrupted by a clamour of noise from the corridor outside. Freed from the need for any appearance of composure, he hastened to the doorway, not releasing the breath he held until he laid eyes on the intruders outside. Intruders he happened to know very well.

"Thorin?"

For the second time that day, someone was staring at him like they had seen a ghost. Or several someones, as the members of what had once been the Company of Thorin Oakenshield pressed against each other in the hallway, outright staring at their erstwhile leader. Bofur was the first to recover, swiftly foregoing any sort of propriety to bound forward and draw his king into a crushing embrace.

"Bless me, but I thought _I'd_ up and died there for a moment." Unabashed, Bofur took a step back, grinning fit to split his face in two. "It is good to see you, Thorin. Hale and hearty, no less! Who would've thought it?"

Bofur was the first, but he was not alone as one by one the members of the Company came forward to greet Thorin. None of them seemed able to believe their eyes, and would not accept that he truly stood before them until they had grasped his hand or forearm and assured themselves he was no apparition.

"Kíli was right then, stubborn lad," Oin murmured when it came his turn, shaking his head. "I can scarce believe it."

"Believing will have to wait, I'm afraid," Thorin answered, clapping the healer on the shoulder as he stepped around him to seek out Gorin's face amongst the crowd. "We do not have much time. Did you see anyone on your way here?"

"Only the guard watching over this lot," Gorin gestured at the rescued members of the Company. "We left him enjoying his own hospitality. It's a strange thing, Thorin, to see the halls so empty. I don't like it."

Thorin didn't either. They had counted on stealth when they had been making their plans, but to meet so little resistance? Something was almost certainly amiss.

"Valin must have had them gather in the lower halls to await the verdict from the front gate," Fengari mused aloud. Darkly, then, he added, "Right in the path of his trap."

A stark reminder of just how far Valin was willing to go to realise his vengeance, Thorin thought grimly. He could not be allowed to succeed. No matter whether Erebor was won or lost, its people would be safe.

"We cannot leave them there," he decided aloud. "Fengari, take Bain with you and get anyone you can find out of the mountain as quickly as possible. Unseen, if you can. There must be a safe path to the Hidden Door Valin does not have watched."

"I will do my best, but you should know we may be too late already," the Captain of the Guard warned, and Thorin nodded grimly.

"That does not mean we should not try."

Nodding, Fengari fell into step with Bain, the two slipping away together as Gorin came forward.

"What of me, Thorin?" he asked. "Shall I lend them my aid?"

"No." Thorin shook his head. "Gather your men and go to the front gate. It will not be long now, I think, before Valin discovers our ruse. Dain may have need of your strength."

"I will make sure that traitor does no further harm," Gorin promised, fisting his hand over his heart before he turned away.

"Are we to stand by and watch, then, Thorin?" Gloin demanded as their numbers thinned. "We've been locked in those damn cells for months, and I'm about ready to crack open a few heads."

"That's just as well, lad," Balin interjected. "We might need to do just that."

"Tell us which heads need cracking and we'll get to it, right quick," Nori piped up, and for once his elder brother was nodding in agreement.

"We will explain everything on the way," Thorin replied, spinning on his heel as he gestured for them to follow. "But we had best be swift. My nephew had a head start, and he's not one to wait on ceremony."

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

There was a point, somewhere between standing on the precipice and hurtling over its edge, where the world stood still. A minute, nay, just a second, stretched out into hours as time came to a halt and every living thing held its breath in suspense, waiting to see which way the hammer would fall. Fíli had felt it before – Once? Twice? Maybe three times. Now, watching everything he had fought for slip through his fingers, he felt it again, and it was agonizing.

After they had come so far, after all the hardship and grief and pain, it just wasn't fair, wasn't right that this should be the conclusion to their struggle. He knew that so many stories had no happy endings. Stories like his father's, like Thror's and Thráin's and Frerin's, but this was _his_ story, and he wasn't going to let this be another tragedy of Durin's line. He just _wasn't_.

But the world only paused for a second, and it was too late to undo what had already been done. Fíli felt his defiance drain away, despair taking root in its place as his heart pounded in his chest so loudly it drowned out even the words he had not yet spoken. His ears strained for the sound of rushing water. The sound of death. The sound of everything they had fought so hard to protect being washed away by a tide of vengeance.

Tárr pulled the lever, Fíli waited, and nothing happened.

It took a moment to sink in – for both of them – and then the smile of victory fell away from Tárr's face. Bewildered, angry, the scarred dwarf pulled at the handle again. It shifted, but barely an inch, snapping back into place the moment he released it. Valin's trap remained as yet unsprung, held in place by a pair of invisible hands, and no one seemed quite certain what to do about it.

 _Invisible hands…?_ Fíli wondered, and looked again. Squinting, head tilted ever so slightly to the side, he thought he could see a strange blur in the torch-cast shadow of the switch. A hobbit shaped blur, perhaps? And if Bilbo was here, then…

"Things not going to plan?" Emerging from the shadows, a dozen or more silhouettes of various sizes at his back, Rin gave the floundering traitor a savage grin. "That's a crying shame, ain't it? You doublecrossing, backstabbing, boar faced, great bloody _weasel_!"

Startled, Tárr took a step away from the switch and his tug of war with an invisible hobbit, raising an accusing finger to point at the prince of the Iron Hills. "You!" Words seemed to fail him for a moment. " _You_! How did you…?"

"Oh, it's quite simple, really." Rin was moving slowly, drifting closer to where Fíli and Lnolir stood. Tárr matched him step for step, attempting to cut him off, but each stride he took was a stride away from the lever. Watching his progress Fíli tightened his grip on his knives, tense and waiting. "Some daft bugger dropped a hobbit down our hole."

"A hobbit? What does a hobbit have to do with…?" One of Tárr's followers murmured, but was ignored.

"No matter," Tárr sneered, appearing to take that comment somewhat personally. "A mistake easily rectified, I think. Valin wanted you alive, as a prize, a trophy, but I'm sure he'll understand if I bring him your head instead."

"My head is quite firmly attached, I'm afraid," Rin retorted. "And I have no intention of letting it go anywhere without me."

"Then perhaps you should consider surrender, young lord," Tárr said mockingly. "You are unarmed, and those that stand behind you are little more than children. You cannot hope to win this fight. If you surrender now I will spare the others, and you may keep your head."

"A promise uttered on what? _Your_ honour?" Rin chucked darkly, casting a glance over his shoulder to Fíli. "What do you think, cousin? Is he jesting or just a plain fool?"

"Neither," Fíli answered, unable to find the humour in the situation after all that had been said and done. "He's a madman."

"Ah, yes." Rin's gaze swung back about to lock with Tárr's venomous stare, and the smile on his lips was more of a snarl as he dropped into a battle-ready stance, his eyes glinting with that familiar, Iron Hills' menace. "Only one thing for it, then."

"Are you in such a hurry to die?" Tarr's eyes narrowed as he drew his axe from his belt. "To lead those who follow you to the same?"

"Well," Rin began pensively. "Out of the two of us, I'm not the one who was stymied by a lever. So, by my reckoning, my chances are pretty good."

At the end of his patience, Tárr leapt forward with a cry, swinging his axe with the clear intent of cleaving Rin's head clean off. Fíli didn't stop to think, he simply gripped the knives in his hands and dived headfirst into the fray.

It was, perhaps, not the wisest decision he had ever made.

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

Lofi had been given an afternoon to compose his list of demands. A mere afternoon in which he had managed to create a list of terms so outrageously long winded it was a wonder none of his listeners had fallen asleep hearing them spoken aloud. Valin had tried to interrupt him several times to point out the ludicrousness of the situation, but Lofi had merely argued against his every protest with rambling monologues that did nothing but prolong the ordeal. It was a masterful performance, really, but at length even the scribe's bountiful well of words dried up, allowing a tense hush to fall once more.

Kíli could only hope the distraction they had provided had been enough as those on the wall above made their response.

"You are a fool, Lady Dís," Valin shouted down, scorn in his voice. "If you think we will bow to even a single one of your ridiculous–"

"It is not yet your turn to speak, Valin," Dís cut him off, his name made a curse on her tongue. She turned to Dain next, her eyes hard, her voice inviting no argument. "There is one more demand we make upon you, cousin, and this one, unlike the others, is not open for discussion. If you wish to resolve this dispute peacefully you must, without delay, hand over the traitor Valin into our keeping, where he shall receive justice for his crimes against the people of Ered Luin, the Iron Hills, and all whom he has wronged and harmed during his tenure as a Councillor of Erebor."

"Crimes?" Valin responded to her accusation with boiling rage. "So it is not enough for you to accuse your own cousin of theft when what he took was freely given, now you must blacken the name of all his court? Is this then the honour of the Line of Durin?"

"Do not speak to me of honour, snake," Dís' response was no less furious, but she cloaked her rage in ice, not fire. "You, who have not the slightest understanding of what it means. I _am_ of Durin's Line, and we do not forget those who have wronged us, Valin, nor do we forgive. This game of yours is at an end, the lives you have shifted like pieces on a board are yours to command no more. You doomed yourself the moment you showed your true colours, and there is nothing you can do or say that will save you from the fate you have made for yourself."

Silence fell for a long, drawn out moment. Kíli held his breath, clutching Fidget's reins in a death grip, and could not stop himself from starting when Valin began to laugh. Quietly at first, a slow chuckle that grew louder as he abandoned his role of loyal advisor and cast off the mantle of civility he had clung to thus far. It lasted only a moment before he cut himself off abruptly, laughter vanishing behind a face of pure menace.

"You think yourself something grand, don't you, Lady Dís?" he said, beginning to march back and forth across the wall, prowling in a manner Kíli could not help but liken to Thorin's tempered ire when those on his doorstep had dared to threaten the gold that had seized a hold of him. "A righteous, royal fury, descending to take vengeance upon the wolf that has crept its way into your flock of blind followers. But it is not only you, is it? _King_ Bard is here as well, a paradigm of a just ruler, as if slaying a dragon is any proof of a man's right to stand above others, to preside over them. And that is not all, oh no. For who do you invite to stand at your right hand but the oldest enemy of your own kind. The woodland ilk Durin's Folk chose over their own kinsmen when they consigned them to their doom!"

Menace morphed to madness as Valin's words grew sharper, a wildness in his eyes that had not been there before, their true foe revealed as his visage transformed into a scarcely recognisable mask of rage. Kíli stared, unable to look away, unable to stop himself from remembering the last time he had stood on those walls and witnessed a similar transformation.

"Easy, lad." Tyrth's hand landed on his knee, startling him and wrenching his eyes away from the spectacle unfolding above the gates. He glanced down at the dour-faced dwarf, and Tyrth offered him a small nod. "It's not your Uncle up there this time. And that isn't the gold sickness."

He'd forgotten that Thorin had confessed all that had happened in Erebor to his council. Tyrth would not have to struggle to guess at what parallels Kíli was drawing in his mind, and had no qualms about speaking bluntly on painful subjects. The words were meant as a comfort, however, and Kíli took them as such, drawing strength from the support Tyrth offered.

"It means nothing here." Atop the parapets, Valin was still speaking, shouting his venom across the distance between him and them. "Your title, the blood that runs through your veins. They are nothing. _You_ are nothing. You cannot touch me, not a single one of you. You have no power here, for what there was to claim is mine, and I will not relinquish it to anyone!"

"If you believe yourself so untouchable," Dís answered him witheringly. "Then why do you still choose to hide behind Erebor's walls like a coward?"

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Valin had calmed again now, a sinister smile smothering the anger of moments before. "The villain of the piece throwing himself upon your mercy. But I think not. If you are so eager to confront me face to face why do you not join us inside, Lady Dís? You want justice so badly? Vengeance? My head? Come and claim it, if you dare. I will open the gates for you and your son both, if you but say the word."

"A traitor and a fool," Svala snapped, reminding Kíli that there were as many watchers upon the walls as stood in its shadow. "We should have tossed you off this wall months ago."

"You are welcome to do so now," Valin told her brightly. "If you never wish to see your son again."

"Rin is of Durin's Blood." Dain broke his silence. "He would understand the sacrifice."

"He would, perhaps," Valin agreed with an incline of his head. "If his death saved the lives of his people. But you are the fools, my dear Lord and Lady, if you think I did not expect some form of rebellion. You say you are ready to forfeit your son's life if it comes to it, Dain. I wonder, how many lives do you think this mountain is worth? For it will cost you a great many more than Thorin Stonehelm to keep it."

Dismissing them both when no answer was forthcoming, Valin turned back to the gathering outside Erebor's gates, his eyes alighting on Dís and never moving on.

"What say you, Dís of Durin's Line?" he prompted. "Are you as ready to seek justice as you claim? Or are your words as empty as your hands?"

"It's a trap," Tyrth said, swift and firm, and it was that, more than anything else, that warned Kíli where his mother's thoughts were straying.

"Thorin is inside the mountain," he reminded her, nudging Fidget closer as he lowered his voice, trying to pull her attention away from Valin, just for a moment. "And Fíli. We do not need to go inside."

"Listen to the lad, now." Lofi added his voice to the debate. "There are enough necks on the line already without you stretching yours across the block."

"Be silent, both of you," Dís cut them off with a decisive slice of her hand through the air, and Kíli knew what her decision would be. He had seen the storm building in his mother from the moment he awoke from his illness back in the camp. It had only been a matter of time before it broke its way free. "I did not come all this way to sit outside the gates to _my_ home whilst my brother and son risk their lives to save it."

"There is a difference between risking your life and throwing it away wantonly." Tyrth was not yet ready to back down. "This is madness, milady!"

"Maybe that is what we need." Dís threw him a cool glance as she dismounted, her next words spoken under her breath, almost to herself. "Meet madness with madness. Fire with fire."

Ignoring Tyrth's spluttering protests Kíli scrambled out of his own saddle, passing Fidget's reins into the hands of a disapproving Lofi as he hastened to reach his mother's side.

"Very well, then, traitor." Standing firm and steady, Dís lifted her chin defiantly as she stared Valin down, heedless of the great mass of stone that separated them. "Open your gates. We'll see how _you_ fare when it comes time to stand by your words."

Expression slipping into a slightly manic grin, Valin raised his hand in a signal to the gatewatch below. Almost at once the great doors began to swing open, silent as only dwarf doors could be, so that Valin's next words, addressed to the archers on the wall, rang loud and clear in the silence.

"Lady Dís and Prince Kíli alone, mind. If anything else moves, kill it. And if you're having doubts, or second thoughts, or a compulsive desire to claim your own revenge, you are welcome to them. Just remember there'll be no more room for dead weight inside this mountain by the time they reach the threshold if any one of you defies me."

His words were met with a baleful silence, but not by all, and Kíli took note of the reactions of those that he could see. For all his claims of power, Valin was not alone atop that wall. He had brought aid, the dangerous kind, and was most certainly not afraid to use it. If this went wrong, if it turned into a battle...

"You do not need to come with me, Kíli." Dís spoke, drawing his attention back to her. Her eyes were focussed on the gaping maw that was Erebor's front gate now, absolute determination etched into her face. "You should wait here, with the others."

"No." He was not about to be left behind. Never again. Dís frowned at his outright refusal, her lips parting to argue. He did not give her the chance. "Together, or not at all."

It was an ultimatum, of sorts and, though he could not quite believe he had dared to say such a thing to his mother, he meant every word. Entering the mountain at all may be folly, but if it must be done he was determined he would not allow her to do it by herself.

"Together, then." A slight smile broke through Dís' scowl as she conceded with an incline of her head. "Let us go catch ourselves a traitor."

"You're both mad!" Tyrth hissed, having approached as they argued. "There is no wisdom in this, Lady Dís. You must reconsider."

"My brother marched on this mountain when a dragon slept inside it," Dís answered him, one brow arched. "If you think I fear the serpent that has taken his place then you are mistaken. After all, this monster will be a great deal easier to kill."

 


	54. Madness Itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please note Chapter 54 has been updated as of 13/03/2017 (or the 12th depending on where you live in the world). Upon writing Chapter 55 I decided the sequence of scenes would play out better in a different order than the one I originally intended. As such, Fili's original scene in this chapter has been replaced with an update on where Dwalin's been at, so if you've already read this chapter you may want to catch up on that one before carrying on the next.
> 
> Happy reading,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 54**

**_Madness Itself  
_**

 

Valin had always been good with puzzles. A gift, his father had called it, with a light in his eye and a smile twitching on his lips, and gifts were meant to be used. Honed and shaped in the service of their cause, just as their very lives were moulded by the same. For what did not serve their purpose had no purpose at all, and what had no purpose had no right to exist.

Even as a young dwarf he had understood that much. The stakes by which the game was played. The cost of failure, and the reward for success. When others ground to a halt, baffled and thwarted, Valin had pushed onwards. Not simply because to do otherwise would be to concede defeat, but because he could not bear to be beaten, and the harder the challenge the greater the triumph of overcoming it.

There was just something irresistible about a problem that did not come with easy answers. Like a loose weave that teased the eye until the hand could not resist picking it apart. A single, dangling thread in a tapestry that would not reveal its flaws until its last strand lay, unravelled, in the palm of one’s hand, and you could see where the weaver had gone awry.

He had spent much of his youth doing just that. Learning how to disassemble what others had created. How to pick apart the foundations of a master’s work, find a weakness and exploit it, slip through that one chink in a sturdy set of armour. Truth be told, however, he had found such methodical destruction beneath him. Any orc could lay a structure low, if given a big enough hammer, and Valin’s true talent lay not in tearing the snares set for him apart piece by piece, but rather turning such devices on others and watching them flail blindly in the dark.

His creations all shared a single, common purpose. They did not exist to challenge the mind, to exercise one's wit or to test one's courage. They existed only to see his mission through to its triumphant end. No easy task, when one considered the undertaking that had been laid out before him, but he had risen to the occasion, overcome the obstacles placed in his way, and lived to see the last pieces of his mosaic slip into place despite their every effort to elude him.

It should have been his greatest achievement, the summit of his life's work, and a moment of victory long, long overdue. And it had been, briefly. After centuries of waiting, the exiles had at last been in a position to exact justice upon those who had wronged them. To claim their revenge. The chance had been years in the making, decades piling upon decades as the rod of retribution was passed from father to son, but the memory of the fate inflicted upon them had never been forgotten. The fire of hatred never extinguished. And yet patience, ever and always patience, the only virtue they allowed to guide their hands.

His forefathers could have taken their vengeance a hundred times over the history of Durin’s Folk had they so chosen. The scions of that line fell just as easily to forged steel as the kin of lesser houses, and their arrogance made them weak to the dangers that lurked within their own sturdy keeps. But that would have been too easy, too simple, and not a fit punishment for their crime. Instead, the exiles had chosen to stay their hand, judging that the spilling of a single King’s blood would not pay the debt owed, and clinging to the promise made to them that the Line of Durin would fall at their feet if they had only the forbearance to wait until the appointed hour.

That that hour had come now, in his lifetime, was a stroke of fortune he did not deserve, but he had sworn he would not dishonour his father’s memory, nor the sacrifice he had made in denying himself his own chance at this long awaited reckoning. The plans had all been laid ready, the alliances in place, and he had only needed to set the pieces in motion to watch Erebor burn.

The swiftness of his enemy’s decline had been a marvel to witness. One moment the Line of Durin stood triumphant, Lords of a mountain of wealth, and the next they were reduced to a ragged flock of desperate refugees, cowering from their memories of smoke and fire, without a roof over their heads or food to feed their children.

And that was only the beginning.

It was not enough to rob them of their home, to watch them crawl amongst the dirt, to humble themselves as common blacksmiths in the towns of Men. The debt would not be satisfied until Durin’s Folk were no more, as much a forgotten remnant of history as those of their kin they had banished before the breaking of the world. And in that fortune had favoured Valin once again, a mark of approval laid upon his intentions, for Thror had needed no voice in his ear to turn his eyes to Moria. Náin, blind fool, had followed him, and the battle that followed had nearly done Valin’s work for him.

Thror had been slain, Thráin delivered into the hands of Valin’s master, and Náin felled before Moria’s very gate. It should have been the beginning of the end. Would have been, but for the intervention of Erebor’s eldest prince, and the sheer determination of Náin’s own son. Together, Thorin and Dain had turned the tide of the battle, and Valin had felt both disappointment and joy as a defeat turned into the mere triumph of survival.  

Disappointment, that he had not been able to witness the end of the Sons of Durin that day, and joy that their ruin would instead come not from their own foolishness, but the cunning of his hand.

The schism between the eldest houses of Durin caused by the blood spilt in Moria had only made them weaker, easier prey. Whilst Dain returned to the Iron Hills to tally his losses and wrestle with his newfound responsibilities, Thorin had gathered what remained of Erebor’s people and stumbled, limping and beaten, into the very arms of those his forefathers had once condemned.

It would have been fitting had their journey ended there, their sentence handed to them in the very place where judgement had fallen upon those they exiled. Valin had planned for it, had even planted seeds of violence in the ripe soil he had found there, but his vengeance was thwarted by the treacherous voice of one Nali Silvertongue. He had underestimated the upstart’s influence when laying his ambush for the Sons of Durin, and Thorin had not been met by the bristling swords and death he deserved.

A setback, to be certain, but Valin was a master at this game, and he knew how to turn even his enemy’s good fortune to his own purposes. Nali’s opinion might have held power over most of those he had led to freedom, but his view on starting over anew was not shared by all, and it had been a simple matter to stir the cup of bitterness left in the wake of such a warm and ready welcome.

Too simple, perhaps, for a crude weapon oft struck astray, and Thorin had once again cheated death at the expense of one he called ‘brother’. And yet, mistaken though it might have been, Nali’s death had served its own purpose, loosening the hold Durin’s Line had taken on the settlement of Ered Luin.

‘ _See_?’ He had whispered in the ears of all those grieving the loss of their saviour. ‘ _See the misfortune they bring? See the death?_ ’  

Some had listened, some had not, and Valin had returned to waiting, to patience, to allowing the Line of Durin to position itself beneath the guillotine so that all he needed to do was let it swing. He had not had long to wait, when all was said and done. Thorin had called the Seven together using authority he no longer possessed as King Beneath the Mountain, and Valin knew then the time was come. The fall of Durin’s Blood had begun in Erebor, and there it would end.

How easy had it been, to strip Thorin of any allies in his proposed venture? Even Dain, feeling always the weight of the life he had refused to save, had been easy to convince. The danger was too great, the risk outweighed the gain, and no good had ever come of waking a sleeping dragon. In the end, the refusal of the Seven had been a foregone conclusion. Just as Thorin's determination to continue with or without aid had been, the blind fool never suspecting the peril he placed his entire Company in the moment he stepped outside the safety of Ered Luin's walls.

For Azog, too, had a score to settle with the Line of Durin.

Had the choice been his to make, Valin would have preferred not to involve the war lord at all. Even the canniest of orcs was still a brute when you stripped away whatever illustrious rank and grandeur they had showered upon themselves. But Azog had been an unavoidable piece upon the board, as important as he was unnecessary, and if nothing else he had ensured Thorin’s grand quest was harried every step of the way.

But then Erebor had come, and what should have been a victory came crashing down in a wave of complete and utter failure. The stage had been set, all the wretched heroes of the farce neatly trapped in a net, ready for culling, and Azog had failed. Dismally. In his bumbling incompetency he had lost not only the battle for the Mountain, but also their Master’s keep in Dol Guldur. Against all odds, against all reason, the Line of Durin had prevailed, and Valin had been left empty-handed.

Defeat was a momentary state of being, however, a fragile, flighty thing easily driven away, and Valin had never submitted to it. Azog may have failed, Dol Guldur may have been lost, and all hope of ruling over Erebor abandoned in favour of less costly pursuits, but that did not mean his quest for vengeance was at an end. He did not need Azog’s armies to win this fight, or the promise of support from his Master. His own wits had been enough through all the long years he had orchestrated the Line of Durin’s downfall, and they would prove just as sufficient here.

Kíli had removed himself from the playing field of his own volition, a valuable piece misplaced, but considering the likelihood his self-imposed quest was leading him nowhere other than his death Valin had been willing to wear the loss. He could work with what remained, planting doubts in the right ears, whispering behind Dain’s back, neatly cutting the new Lord Beneath the Mountain off from all who might otherwise have come to his aid. But Dain had not earned his monicker for nothing, and a sturdy ruler did not bow at the first sign of strife. Dain was not to be intimidated or bullied into doing another’s will, years of service had taught Valin that much, and so he had struck at the very heart of his lord’s nation.

There was no treasure any dwarf valued more than a child. Family was all, particularly in the Iron Hills, where many had borne witness to the cost of cherishing wealth over kin. Durin’s Folk were a frustratingly loyal bunch, but tear that loyalty in two, offer them a choice between one or the other, between losing what they held most dear or betraying those they were sworn to serve, and you had them right where you wanted them. It had been a dangerous gamble, one that could easily have failed had anyone discovered his actions before they had gone too far to halt, but Valin had nothing to lose and nothing to fear. Either Durin’s Line ended here, or he did. There was no other acceptable outcome.

And, oh! The triumph he had felt when he ground Dain’s defiance beneath his heel. When he showed him just how far out of his hands control over Erebor had slipped. When he saw the look of betrayal on the Lord of the Iron Hills’ face, and knew just how easily he had deceived his way into the fold. Erebor had been his to do with as he pleased, his victory had been at hand…

…And then the dead had risen from their graves and come back to trouble him once more.

He had not thought to see Kíli alive after learning the true reason for the Prince’s departure. There had been no lie in what he told the Seven, when he implied Dain had played a part in the Prince’s disappearance. Had Dain not encouraged Kili’s madness, sending a grieving heir to his death so that he might ascend in his place?

Apparently not, for Kíli had been alive and well when he returned to Erebor, the Lady Dís at his side and a motley array of individuals at his back. Not for the first time since this had all begun, Valin had been forced to improvise, hoping to destroy the threat the newcomers posed to his careful balancing act before they truly became one.

His hands were tied in too many directions to truly destroy them, however, and his efforts to do so in a more subtle manner had only felled one of their number, and then not even in the deadly fashion he had intended. To compound things Dain, empowered by his cousin’s appearance, had dared to challenge him despite the risk, barking sharp words that tiptoed around the fragile ledge they were all balancing on, as if he truly did not care whether or not he sent them careening over the edge.

In that moment, Valin had decided he had had enough. With the Line of Durin, with this accursed mountain, and with all his plans being shredded into fluttering ribbons by people who had no right to still be alive. Let those who would claim what they could from the wreckage he left behind, Erebor would still be standing even if its people were not, and he was not going down without taking them with him.

He had not, needless to say, been expecting Dís to hand herself and her son over to him on a gilded platter. She must have known what she was doing, stepping into the viper’s lair. She could hardly not, after the words they had exchanged on the wall, and yet she came anyway, true to the reckless blood of Durin, and her hapless bairn followed her, having learned nothing from his past mistakes.

It would be their downfall.

It would be their death.

None of them would leave the mountain alive.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Bard watched the great gates of Erebor swing closed, forming an impenetrable barrier between those who stood yet on the mountain’s doorstep and those who had crossed the threshold, and wondered to himself why Thorin had felt a need to bring an army with him. Judging by what he had witnessed thus far, Dís of Durin’s Line hardly needed strength of arms to make herself a threat to her foes, and they knew it as well as she.

That was why Valin had drawn her inside the mountain, inside his net, though Bard wondered if he knew what a creature it was he was trying to snare.

“Well, then.” Eyeing the wall before them with a strange mixture of gravity and amusement, Legolas spoke his own thoughts aloud. “Once again we are left outside. Truly, Mithrandir, the dwarves of this mountain are the most inhospitable of hosts.”  

“Had any of those dwarves actually summoned you to their mountain I might be inclined to agree with you,” the wizard replied, unruffled. “But the uninvited guest should not complain when he is left kicking his heels outside the front door.”

“Ah, but only an unwise host leaves even an uninvited guest to his own devices.” Casually, the elven prince unhooked his bow from his saddle, resting it across his knees as he slipped an arrow from the quiver hanging on the other side and teased the fletching with his fingers. “Who knows what trouble his boredom might lead to?”

“Who knows, indeed.” There was no missing the undercurrent in Gandalf’s voice this time, and Bard found himself staring quizzically between the pair, trying to determine what they were saying without actually saying. “But I expect an elf should have no trouble occupying himself in such an unfortunate circumstance.”

“I expect not,” Legolas agreed amicably, fitting the arrow to the string and holding both in a loose ready position.

Unable to sit in silence any longer, Bard asked the question on the tip of his tongue. “What are you doing?”

Both Legolas and Gandalf turned at his question, but it was the elf who spoke. “We are waiting,” he said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Bard stared at him in question. “Waiting?”

“Yes,” Gandalf answered him this time, his tone absent as his eyes scanned the silhouettes spread across the top of the wall behind which their companions had vanished. “Waiting.”

Bard paused a beat, then several more, before his patience deserted him. “Waiting for what, Gandalf?”

The wizard did look at him then, peering out from beneath the wide brim of his hat as he made his chilling response, “For the beast to stir.”    

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Dwalin had watched over the House of Thror for as long as he could remember. It had started with Thorin, the heir, the future king, and his oldest friend. They had grown up together, and just as Balin had been trained from youth to be an advisor to Thror’s grandson, Dwalin had been his stalwart protector, the shield at his back, the ax at his right hand. There had never been any question that that was his rightful place, such was the honour of the House of Fundin, a charge he had been proud to bear, even when one became three.

Frerin and Dís had had their own wardens before Erebor was lost, but Dwalin had always considered their welfare as much his responsibility as Thorin’s. They were three parts of a whole, each inextricably bound to the other, and that had never been so evident as it was after the dragon came. When Thror’s ailment became his people’s curse, and Thráin’s weakness thrust a burden onto shoulders far too young to bear it.

Thorin had been the strength of Erebor’s displaced people in the wake of the dragon fire; Unwavering, undaunted, unbowed by even the worst of the hardships that afflicted them on the dangerous road to safety. But strength alone was not enough, and if Thorin had been an embodiment of fortitude than Dís had been the quintessence of courage. There was nothing that Erebor’s princess feared, no hole so dark that she would cease staring into its depths, no foe she would not defy for her people. She had been a child when Erebor fell, forced to grow up too quickly as so many other children were, but she had not let it crush her. She was the steady hand on Thorin’s back, pressing him onwards, making sure that strength did not fail.

And Frerin? Frerin had been hope. Where Thorin would face the darkness, where Dís would confront it, Frerin would walk straight through the shadows, certain he would find a light on the other side if he only went far enough. Dwalin had never been certain where he found the faith for such optimism, but he had learnt early on that, gentle soul though he might be, Frerin was not lacking in conviction.

They had needed that simple but heartfelt belief after the dragon came. For what was strength without hope that a time would come when it was not needed? What was courage without the promise that there was something beyond their present misery worth persevering for? The three only worked when they were together. They completed one another, rounded out the rough corners and polished away the flaws. Dwalin had watched them lift a fallen nation back onto its feet, had dared to believe that he was looking at a new beginning for Durin’s Folk despite what they had lost, and then…

And then he had failed. He had let hope die, and despite what Thorin would say in the years that followed Dwalin knew the weight of that loss would always be his to carry. Frerin had been in his charge, entrusted to his care, and he had let the darkness swallow the young prince whole. Who knew what pain Thráin’s second son had suffered in the deepest of Moria’s depths? How long Borg had kept him alive just to snuff out that obstinate faith? When Frerin had at last realised no rescue was coming, and submitted to his fate?

They were questions that had haunted him in the aftermath, swirling at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, or when he looked at the two who remained and saw the jagged edges where their last piece had been cruelly ripped away. He had sworn it would never happen again, that he would lay down his life before he let another of Durin’s blood endure such a fate, and he had kept that oath. Thorin and Dís had been safe in his charge for many years.

Nali Silvertongue had not.

At the time he had never considered the fact Ered Luin’s leader might need any sort of protection. Indeed, when they’d first met, he’d considered the clumsy fool a threat, to Dís dignity if not her welfare. More than that, he’d always sensed something darker behind those too-bright smiles, a hidden secret that would not be easily prised loose. It hadn’t been until much later that he’d learned the truth, and by then it had been too late to bridge the gap his distrust had forged between them.

At least, until Fíli had been born. There, he and Nali had found common ground in their steadfast resolve that no harm should come to the new heir of Durin’s blood. Another life the second son of Fundin chose to make his responsibility, never guessing that Fíli and the brother that followed would not be the first to come to harm.

Nobody had seen Nali’s death coming. It had blindsided them all, a loss that struck all the harder for being so unexpected. Dwalin had been forced to witness as Thorin and Dís crumbled beneath the weight of another blow, feeling again the sharp sting of his own helplessness. Twice now, he had failed in his duty. Never, _never_ again.

His redemption had come in the form of the children Nali had left behind. The princes he had helped shape and shield throughout their founding years, training them for the world outside their home even as he joined Thorin and Dís in ensuring the hardships that had shaped their own lives did not touch those of the next generation. It made up for nothing. It would not spare Frerin the horror of his death, or return a father to the sons who barely remembered him, but Dwalin had deceived himself into believing the future would be different. That these two would be safe where those who came before had not.

It had nearly broken him when that belief had proven to be a false hope.

The days, the weeks he had spent believing Thorin and Fíli dead had been one of the darkest times of his life, and Kíli vanishing from his sight had only compounded matters. How many times, he had wondered, would he have to watch those he was sworn to protect cut down whilst he survived? It was his duty to guard them with his life, and he would gladly have given it to see even one of them survive, but Fate chose to spare him and take them, over and over again, and he did not understand _why_.

Discovering that they had survived, that he had nearly condemned his oldest friend and a young dwarf he had played a part in raising to a gruesome, lingering end had been a twisted sort of mercy. If Kíli had been just a little less stubborn… If Gandalf had not been prone to such odd flights of fancy… If Beorn had not been able to point them towards the settlement of Nordinbad… They would have both been dead, Thorin and Fíli, and he would have been more to blame than he would ever have known.

That was why he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing as the Line of Durin risked their lives so wantonly for the umpteenth time. He knew that was _their_ duty, that their lives belonged to their people, not to themselves, but it didn’t make it any easier. He couldn’t watch them fall again. Not this time, and that was an oath he would keep even if it killed him.

He had lived in Erebor long enough before Smaug made it his home to know there were more ways than one to reach the mountain’s most important rooms. Valin had the main corridors watched, Fíli had chosen the most unconventional route possible to overcome that hurdle without sacrificing time they did not have, and Dwalin wasn’t going to let him face whatever awaited in those forges alone. He had decided that much as soon as Dís’ eldest son disappeared up the sluiceways, and he had not hesitated to act upon that resolve.

His memories of Erebor’s interior were somewhat rusty – there hadn’t been a great deal of time for exploring when he had last been here, even if he had been of a mind to revisit old haunts – but instinct served him well enough in filling in the gaps. As he worked his way through the narrow crawl spaces, edged his way along ledges accompanied by dizzying vertical drops, and tried not to get stuck in trapdoors not meant to accommodate a dwarf at all, let alone one of his physique, it became abundantly clear that Valin, for all his trickery, knew very little about the internal workings of the mountain he had claimed for his own.

Or perhaps he did, and simply hadn’t considered the fact someone might be crazy enough to crawl in through the channels that normally carried molten hot liquid to the smiths working below the great forges. Either way, he’d provided an opening, and it was one Dwalin did not hesitate to exploit, persevering even when the mountain itself seemed to be setting its will against him.

When he at last emerged from the maze of the smelting works it was to find himself in a wide expanse of complete and utter darkness. Even his dwarfish eyesight was not enough to pierce the mass of shadows hanging over the enormous forgery at _the other end of the chamber_ , and he stifled a growl at the back of his throat as he realised he had come out on the opposite side of the room to where Fíli and Lnolir would have surfaced. Too late to rectify that mistake now, he turned away from the silent furnaces and made for the stairs that would take him up to the reservoirs above. If all had gone according to plan, Fíli would be there, rendering Valin’s trap useless.

He took the steps two at a time, stepping out amidst the network of channels ferrying water to and fro from the mountain’s vast reservoirs. Ignoring the flooded canals he hastened towards the reservoirs themselves, acutely aware of the sounds of conflict emanating from the path ahead. And yet, the nearer he drew, the less he could ignore the other danger brewing in the darkness. The threat Fíli had been sent to destroy. Valin’s key to power, which could so easily turn a victory into a defeat, and make a tragedy of Erebor once more.

A choice was upon him, and yet how could it be a choice at all? He was sworn to protect the Line of Durin, and that duty should demand his presence at Fíli’s side, protecting the future heir of the crown. But Fíli was not the only dwarf of royal blood inside the mountain, and they were all, along with Erebor’s inhabitants, threatened by Valin’s work.

So he stood at the crossroads, hesitating, uncertain which way to turn. But a decision had to be made, and Dwalin had never been one to dither for long. He took a step forward, and made his choice.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Kíli entered Erebor with his crossbow in hand, a bolt already fitted to the string, and a strong sense that this was a terribly bad idea. No doubt, had his mother been in a more rational mood, she would have realised that before the doors swung closed behind them, sealing them in with an ominously final thud. But Dís' mood was the very opposite of rational right now, and so it fell to Kíli to be the cautious one, pacing a step behind his mother as he let his eyes adjust to the mountain's dim interior.

Most of the torches that lined the entrance hall were unlit, lending a gloomy feel to their surrounds, that same sense of hollow abandonment that had lingered whilst the dragon slumbered below. Whether that was a deliberate machination on Valin’s part or simply coincidence Kíli could not tell, and it was hardly the question at the forefront of his mind at present. He was preoccupied by how well those shadows could hide anyone that wanted to creep within their depths; a place for monsters to lurk in the dark.

Although in this case, they hid only one.

Valin stepped forward with all the oily grace of a viper slithering out of its hole, a feral smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye that spoke of a wild creature backed into a corner with nothing left to lose. It was disconcerting, particularly as Valin did not even know how far he was beaten, unaware still of the intruders running amuck amidst the heart of his deathtrap.

“Lady Dís.” Mockingly, Valin performed an elaborate bow. “You honour us with your presence. Have you any request for the particulars of your funeral rites?”

“You think you have won, Valin, is that it?” Dís' fingers were resting on the top of her hammer, her voice low and dangerous. “That, somehow, this is all going to turn out as you please?”

Valin' eerie smile widened further. “Do you think I have not, Lady Dís?” he inquired with false politeness. “Or need I remind you I could slay you both where you stand and dear cousin Dain wouldn't be able to lift a finger to stop me?”

“You can kill me, Valin,” Dís retorted, apparently unconcerned. “And my son, and Dain too. It will change nothing. The Line of Durin has overcome every attempt to lay it low in the past and it will do so again. It takes more than a half-baked remnant of a disgraced line to end a royal lineage that has survived for centuries.”

“Without a single heir of royal blood to carry the crown?” Valin scoffed. “I think not.”

“You are forgetting,” Dís reminded him coolly. “That I have two sons who bear Durin’s blood in their veins, and a brother who will stop at nothing to see his people returned to their rightful home.“

“They're dead.” But he did not sound so certain now, a flicker of doubt creeping across his face, mingled with fury and hatred. “Nothing but warg-fodder now.”

Dís took two strides forward, putting herself dangerously close to the monster, and said, “Are they?”

Kíli had seen one of his kin snap before. His own uncle, raging upon the parapets at friend and foe alike. He had thought it terrifying at the time, watching Thorin slowly unravel before his very eyes; The most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

Somehow, this was worse.

Valin did not unravel, he exploded, lashing out in a burst of deranged violence. Bared steel flashed in the darkness and Dís retreated, but not quickly enough. The knife tore through her sleeve and the skin beneath, and Kili’s eyes had adjusted well enough to see the blood left in its wake. He raised his crossbow on instinct, his finger slipping neatly around the trigger, then startled as an arrow embedded itself in the carven wood with a forceful thump. He glanced up just in time to see the archer who had fired it tumble from his perch, felled by an elven shaft, and then all descended into chaos.

There were shouts from the wall, the distinctive clash and crash of battle being joined. Kíli was distantly aware of Dain bellowing orders, demanding the gates be opened, that the traitors surrender, but he did not have attention to spare for the Lord of the Iron Hill’s struggle. Valin was taking advantage of the distraction above, backing away slowly, hunched in on himself like a kicked dog.

“This is not a defeat,” he muttered, speaking to noone and nothing. “The victory is mine still.” He lifted his head, and the wildness was back in his face, the feral smile on his lips. “The victory is _mine_.”

Without waiting for a response he turned on his heel and bolted into the mountain. Dís followed at once, pounding after him, heedless of the likelihood she was charging right into a trap.

“Ma!” Kíli tried to call her back. “Ma, wait!”

Too late, or simply not enough, his cry went ignored. Biting back a growl of frustration he snapped off the arrow embedded in his crossbow, slung the weapon back across his shoulder, and followed them both into the warg’s den.

 

 


	55. The Unravelling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: PLEASE READ BEFORE READING.
> 
> I must apologize for this one, as it does not resolve the cliffhanger you were all left with at all. In fact, it is the same cliffhanger, just worse. Upon writing up Chapter 55 I realised I did not like the way the sequence of the scenes played out in their planned order. The beats were off, so a little reshuffling was needed. As such, Fili's scene from the last chapter has been brought forward to this one. If you have already read Chapter 54 you may like to go back and read the new scene with Dwalin that took the place of Fili's piece. It is not vitally important to the story to read it, but it may give you some hope for the cliffhanger in this chapter. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!
> 
> All the best,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 55**

**_The Unravelling  
_**

No matter how much he might have wished it, Thorin had not been able to rush directly to his nephew’s aid, and not just because to do so would be throwing caution to the wind. No, the obstacle barring his path was far more physical in nature, a literal stone wall sitting where it had no right to be.

“What in Durin’s name…?” Gloin moved past his king to press against the barricade, finding, as Thorin had done, that it was immovable. “A cave-in?”

“Not a chance,” Nori corrected him. “Look at those clean edges. That’s dwarf work, that is.”

“But why would someone build a wall here?” Bofur wondered aloud. “On the main road to the forges? Were they trying to keep us out?”

“No.” Thorin frowned at the blockade. “They were trying to keep something in.”

Balin understood immediately, and spoke his grim realisation aloud. “They’re trying to channel the water down a single route.”

“There are too many tunnels,” Thorin nodded. “The flood will lose strength if it’s diverted too many times.” He turned to the rest of the Company. “Tear it down.”

There was no hesitation, no question as to whether or not they would be able to disassemble the stone barricade with only their weapons on hand, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield simply did as they had always done; They found a way. Thorin felt a swell of pride at seeing how well they all worked together, the bonds this quest had created between the most motley band of adventurers he had ever had the pleasure of leading, and for a brief moment the shadows of Erebor seemed to recede a little.

Then Oin laid a hand on his shoulder and drew him back to the present peril. “We have this, Thorin,” the healer assured him. “Go.”

He was right. Thorin did not have time to wait for the wall to come down, not if he wanted to reach Fíli before Erebor inevitably turned on Durin’s Blood as it always had in the past. He nodded gratefully, already moving, and found Balin at his side as he turned.

“We can take the western passage,” his advisor said as they began to sprint. “It runs towards the lower halls. They won’t have blocked it.”

“No.” Thorin shook his head without slowing his pace. “That will take too long. We’ll use the pulleys.”

Had it been anyone other than Balin with him, that plan would no doubt have been met with a myriad of protests. As it was the older dwarf simply shook his head and kept his opinions to himself, trusting that Thorin knew what they were without him needing to speak them aloud.

And he did. It was a rare occasion now that he did not know what advice Balin would offer when he thought his king was being needlessly reckless. But there was nothing needless about this. Fíli’s fate, and perhaps the fate of the entire mountain, hung in the balance of aid reaching his nephew in time. Even if Fíli had managed to stop Valin’s plans from eventuating, his heir was still in grave danger, and Thorin refused to let him face that danger alone.

The passageway ahead of him branched suddenly and he swung to the right, not slowing his headlong charge even when the ground dropped away beneath him into a series of stone steps. If anything, he quickened his pace, bounding down the stairwell with Balin holding steady a few strides behind him.

Never before had Erebor’s colossal interior seemed such a cold thing, indifferent to the plight of its people, unmoved by his desperate need for haste. He knew it was only his imagination, that a mountain was a mountain and could neither hinder nor help those who chose to make a home beneath it, but this kingdom had cost so much already. He did not know if he would ever be able to forgive it if it took more.

He didn’t know if he would ever be able to forgive himself if he let it.

“There!”

Balin, whose attention had not wavered, spotted the opening first. Ten strides further on the steps ended, and they emerged onto one of the platforms suspended above Erebor’s mines. As Thorin had hoped, the pulleys by which the miners did their work were still in place. Some were even new, a testament to the restoration work Dain had spearheaded right up until the moment Valin showed his true colours.

Leaving Balin to check the integrity of the pulleys themselves, Thorin moved towards the platform’s end, snagging one of the hanging seats in his hand as he went. It had been a long time since he had used such a device, Ered Luin’s veins had never run as deep as the Lonely Mountain’s rich caverns, but there was no hesitation in his step as he approached edge.

“It all seems to be in working order,” Balin announced. “Though I can’t promise the way will be open when you reach the top.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Leaning out over the precipice, Thorin looked down, not up. “The enemy is below us.”

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~  
**

 

It was not often that Dís lost her hold on her herself. She might never have been as serene as Frerin, or as peaceable as Nali, but she had a level head on her shoulders that prevailed more often than not. _Someone_ had needed to set an example for her sons, and her self-control had the added advantage of making her rare outbursts of frustration far more effective than they might otherwise have been. Thorin had learned he had better sit himself down and listen when Dís chose to raise her voice, though it had taken him a while. Her sons had been quicker studies when it came to that particular lesson, unencumbered by the years Thorin had had to become so stubbornly set in his ways.

She doubted even he would have dared cross her in her current mood. It was foolish, she knew that, and reckless, and brash, and all those things she had reprimanded her brother for so many times. She should know better, she _did_ know better, she just didn’t care. Valin had taken too much: A brother, a husband, a home. And then he had tried to take more. He had threatened her children, and in so doing, he had sealed his fate.

She heard Kíli call after her as she bolted from the room, but she paid him no heed. He was safer where he was, under Dain’s watchful eye, far from Valin’s reach, and removed from the bloody confrontation that was sure to come. So she kept running, she did not turn back, following close on the traitor’s heels as he fled before her, as fleet as any coward she had ever met.

Their path did not take them upwards, towards the great hall of the King or the treasury that had once bewitched her grandfather. Instead they plunged down, down, down into the heart of the mountain, where it hid its wealth in depths of shadow that failed to dissuade Durin’s Folk from seeking whatever prize Erebor was willing to surrender.

Valin reached the central mining shaft and struck out across the bridge that spanned the gaping hole, narrow as only dwarf bridges could be and without a handrail in sight. Dís did not hesitate to follow, not casting a single glance towards the dizzying drop on either side of her, her attention reserved for the dwarf who now turned to face her. She kept walking until she was standing just out of arm’s reach, the both of them suspended above the very middle of the shaft, and neither of them giving any sign that the precariousness of their position bothered them.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know.” In contrast to his earlier volatility, Valin seemed almost conversational now. “Your ends could have been swift, painless, had you only been content to die.”

“Swift and painless like Frerin’s?” She retorted, her hammer in her hand, though she did not recall drawing it. Her vision was darkening around the edges, honing in on Valin alone, and she fought to hold steady, to not be the first to throw a blow. “Or do you expect me to believe those beasts only defiled his body _after_ he was dead?”

“I had nothing to do with your brother’s death,” he denied, smiling as he did so. “That was Thror’s doing. He is the one who chose to awaken the sleeping beast. Is it any wonder he was devoured whole?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” She was trembling now. “You do prefer the swifter death, don’t you, Valin? Nali could attest to that.”

“An unfortunate accident,” the snake replied smoothly. “Such as befalls those who stand beside the Line of Durin.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want him dead!” she snapped at him, wavering. “He stood for everything you hated.”

“On the contrary,” he chose to refute her. “I had no quarrel with Nali Silvertongue. He brought his fate on himself, when he chose to wed you and continue your cursed lineage.”

Dís tried to answer him, but her thoughts were scattering, the words would not come, and Valin was blurring before her eyes even as a sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“What is the matter, Lady Dís?” There was a knife in his hands, but he was not holding it for battle, toying with it as he gave her a knowing glance. “You look unwell.”

Realisation struck her like a cold wave, her free hand instinctively rising to cover the wound he had dealt her. It was only a scratch, she had barely felt it when it happened, but now… now…

Her knees folded beneath her, and for a terrifying moment she was staring down into the deep, deep emptiness of the mineshaft. She reared back away from it, falling onto her haunches, her hammer slipping from her grasp. She watched, unable to do a thing, as Valin approached her, kicking her weapon over the edge as he came, and halting only once he towered over her, triumph making his eyes glow.

“Consider it a mercy, Lady Dís,” he told her. “You will not have to watch your children die.”

Oh, he _was_ a fool.

Summoning what remained of her failing strength she struck him, hard, in the stomach. He flailed backwards, choking on his surprise, but he did not fall. His boot heel scuffed the edge of the drop and then he stopped, rage transforming his face in a way that was truly frightening as he charged at her, his intent clear. She had nowhere to go, no strength left to fight, and she uttered a silent apology to her children, to her brother, then watched as Valin ground to a sudden, inexplicable halt.

His knife slipped from his hand and he staggered back, reaching up with groping fingers to grip the bolt embedded in his shoulder. As shocked as he was, Dís summoned the strength to turn around, her distorted vision doing nothing to stop her from recognising her youngest child, struggling to reload a weapon he was still not truly familiar with.

“No…” The words made no sound as they left her lips, and her fingers were too weak to do more than drag across Valin’s boots as he stormed past her, tossing the bloody dart aside with a savage snarl. “No, _Kíli_ …”

He didn’t hear her, backing away as he struggled to set another bolt to the string without taking his eyes off the raging madman bearing down upon him.

A madman who never made it off the bridge.

She thought she was seeing things at first, the poison taking its toll as she watched her brother descend from the heights like a thunderbolt of pure rage. He crashed atop Valin’s back with a cry that echoed in the hollow space, his sword piercing through the traitor’s chest and grinding on the stone below.

Valin shrieked like a wounded animal, and she was certain she was not imagining that, watching him writhe and thrash and simply refuse to die. Thorin pulled his blade free, set his foot against the madman’s side, and sent him toppling into the abyss. The screaming did not stop even then, ringing inside the cavern, inside her head, long after the echoes had died away.

But then, monsters never did die quietly.

“Dís!” Thorin was beside her suddenly. She had not seen him move, but she knew his voice, the firm grip of his hand upon her shoulder as he lifted her upright. “Dís, _look_ at me.”

It was a struggle, but she managed it, adding a reproving note of reprimand to her voice as she gasped, “You’re late.”

“And you are a fool,” he bit back at her, tearing her sleeve away ruthlessly to get a better view of the tiny scrape that had brought her so low. “What were you thinking, Dís?”

“I wasn’t,” she admitted truthfully. She had to pause for what seemed an age, wrack her mind for the question she needed to ask next, but it came to her at last. “Where’s Kíli?”

“I sent him to find Tuilinn.” He was lifting her now, guiding her back off the bridge and onto more solid ground. “I fear we have need of her services once more.”

“Truly?” He set her down against a wall and she rolled her head to the side, struggling to get a clear view of his face. “Did the world end while I wasn’t looking or did Thorin Oakenshield swallow his pride?”

He made a sound that might have been a strangled laugh, tightening his hold on her shoulder. “It would appear I have no choice. You are all so intent on landing yourselves back in a sickbed it is an unavoidable occurrence.”

He deserved a sharp answer for that, a reminder of the many times he had been the one bleeding all over her clean sheets. To her regret she did not have the strength to point as much out to him as the world around her darkened suddenly, a weight on her chest making it hard to breathe.

“Stay with me, Dís,” she heard Thorin plead with her from a distance, his voice muted and faint, and then she heard nothing at all.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~  
**

 

Fíli was angry.

No. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't anger, this burning fire that had started in his chest and spread from there, a tidal wave of rage, of wrath. Anger wasn't a strong enough word for it. Wasn’t a strong enough reaction to all that these people had done. What they had planned to do. It wasn't anger, it was an absolute fury that drew a red sheen across his vision and made his heart pound to the beat of the war drum thrumming somewhere in the back of his mind.

His encumbering limb forgotten he hurled himself at the enemy, his twin knives coming up in a tight guard as he put himself between Rin and Tárr, steel slamming against steel with a ringing 'clang'. Around him, the tension in the air had finally snapped as Tarr’s followers engaged Rin’s improvised army, trying to make use of the advantage their weapons gave them over their unarmed, but far more numerous foes.

To his chagrin, Fíli could do nothing about the plight of his kinsmen, struggling as he was to keep up with Tarr’s violent blows. The scarred dwarf fought in a manner that left no doubt as to his intentions, and, once the initial flush of anger had abandoned him, Fíli was left to come to terms with the fact he had put himself in a very bad position. He could not hope to hold his ground, not with a game leg ready to drop his guard at any moment, but nor was retreat a tenable solution. Tárr would follow, would press the advantage, and he could well end up in a worse corner than the one he had already put himself in.

He looked around briefly, seeking aid, but Lnolir had been cut off by one of Tarr’s henchmen the moment Fíli engaged the enemy, and Rin, still without any weapon save his bullheadedness, had rushed to the defence of the all important switch, foreseeing that Valin’s trap would remain the goal of their adversaries so long as it was within reach.

No help was coming, he was going to have to do this on his own.  

With that sobering thought lodged in the forefront of his mind, Fíli slowly and deliberately began to give ground, enticing Tárr away from his original goal, giving Rin and the others a chance. It wasn’t easy, Tárr knew every second step was a stumble, an opportunity to try and slip beneath Fíli's defences, and he pushed him every step of the way. But Fíli wasn’t the naive youth he had been when he left Ered Luin, ready for combat but only under the understanding it would be a fair fight. He had fought a dozen battles since, many whilst wounded, and if he had learnt nothing else he knew now how to survive.

His leg may be useless and his heart filled with doubt, but his hands were as steady as ever, and the instinct of all his years of training served him as well as it always had in the past. He met Tárr blow for blow even as he retreated away from the switch, catching every strike, deflecting some back, keeping his knives moving in a swift and ceaseless pattern that forced his opponent to keep up, and gave him no time to stop and consider the trap he was walking into, step by steady step.

Fíli felt more than saw the space open up behind him. Erebor’s wide expanse landing like a cold embrace across his shoulders. He did not turn, or flinch, or give any indication that he was aware of what lay at his back. Instead he let his leg cave beneath him, let the weakness show as he stumbled, and let Tárr assume he had found the opening he was seeking.

As expected, the scarred dwarf charged forward, his ax raised as he let out a triumphant shout. Fíli stopped straining and let his leg drop him completely, putting all his weight on his good limb as he ducked and pivoted. His assailant, not expecting the sudden movement, sailed past him to trip upon the edge of oblivion.

There was a brief moment where they both stared at one another, the one in outraged horror, the other in triumphant satisfaction, and then Tarr’s free hand latched onto the edge of Fili’s tunic, and before his mind could grasp the true relevance of that fact he was tumbling, head over heels, down a series of stone steps, Tárr above and below him as they fell together.

He nearly blacked out when they reached the bottom, a silent scream wrenched from his lips as his bad leg folded beneath him. Darkness crept into his vision, deeper and more dangerous than the mountain’s natural shadow. He fought it, hands grasping blindly for his dropped weapons even as he tried to roll over, to see where Tárr had fallen.

He did not have long to wonder as a hand snared in the cloth covering his chest, dragging him upright with brutal force to slam his back against the wall. Vision still blurred, he reached for one of the other weapons concealed on his person, only to have it dashed from his hand before he could put it to good use. The pressure on his chest grew, he thought Tárr might have been screaming something in his face, but the sound was muted, drowned out by the growing swell of panic and the fact he could not _breathe_.

In that moment he wasn’t in Erebor, facing a traitor for the sake of all his people. He was back beneath Gundabad, trapped in the clutches of an enemy he couldn’t hope to overcome, desperate only to survive. He struck out instinctively, aiming for the foe of the past as much as that of the present, and caught his assailant a stunning blow on the cheek that loosened the hold on his collar just enough for him to wrench free.

He rolled away, the movement made clumsy by his uncooperative leg, and then dragged himself backwards in the bare seconds it took his attacker to recover, seeking refuge in one of the alcoves etched into the stone wall at his back. His breathing was ragged, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to quiet it, ears straining for any sound of pursuit even as his mind insisted it wasn’t safe to stop, to stand, and _he was going to die down here_.

But no. _No_. That was before, not now. Kíli had come for him. This wasn’t Gundabad, this was Erebor, his home, and he was going to defend it. He closed his eyes to the memories lurking in every corner and thought of the lake in Nordinbad, of the great expanse of stars his father had so loved, of anything but the walls closing in around him, and the venomous creature lurking in the dark, ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

He thought of Kíli, pale and weak, but stronger than Fíli had ever seen him. He thought of his mother, sitting at his bedside and holding his hand in her own as she refused to give up on him even when he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He thought of Thorin, so full of doubt and self-loathing, yet here nonetheless, because his family had asked it of him. He thought of Nali, the father he had barely known, whose first thought when it came to his sons had been their protection.

 _Protection_.

Startling back to himself, Fíli leaned back against the wall, balancing precariously on one leg so he could bring the other boot up to his waiting hand. The knife slid easily into his palm, settling there as though it belonged, and he felt the shadows retreat the moment his fingers closed around it. He was not unarmed, he was not helpless, and he would not let Tárr win.

“There you are, little mouse.”

Pushing off with his hands and his good leg, Fíli dived for safety, hearing Tarr’s ax bounce off the stone where his head had been a moment before. The scarred dwarf was near silent on his feet, and Fíli had no way of knowing where he was as he struggled to right himself from where he had landed, sprawled on the stone floor. He had barely made it to his knees when Tarr’s boot caught him in the side and he crashed onto his back, winded. His father’s knife was still in his hand, clutched tight, and he used the pattern of the handle digging into his palm to keep the panic at bay as Tárr loomed above him.

“You should have stayed away,” the traitor hissed at him as he bent down, the ax in his hand disconcertingly close, though it did not seem to have occured to him to use it. “Did you not understand? This mountain is cursed.”

“You’re wrong.” Fíli did not let his stare drift away from Tarr’s face, despite the weapon threatening to end him then and there. “You’re the one who is cursed.”

He lashed out, his father’s knife slashing across Tarr’s face. The scarred dwarf reeled back with an outraged scream, his hand flying to cover his good eye as he staggered in pain. Scrambling to his feet, wavering himself, acting more on battle honed instinct than rational thought, Fíli latched on to Tarr’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him close, driving Nali’s knife into the traitor chest right up to the hilt.

Tárr went rigid in his grip, and Fíli turned his head just enough to whisper in his ear, “ _That_ was for my father.”

Tarr’s ax hit the floor as he jerked in pain, trying to pull away. Fíli let him go, yanking his blade free and stumbling back himself. He tried to put weight on his bad leg and ended up sitting down in a graceless heap, his head spinning as he watched Tárr crumple to the floor, twitching senselessly for several, long moments before he went utterly still.

Dead. He was dead. Fíli had killed him. The dwarf responsible for ending his father’s life, for taking Nali away from his sons, for countless other crimes against his own kin that Fíli did not know about but doubtlessly existed. And yet… and yet… He had never killed anything that was not beast, warg, or orc before. It felt different. It _was_ different, and both anger and panic were bleeding away to be replaced by something hollow and bleak.

He wished…

“Fíli!”

He jerked his head up at the sound of Bilbo’s voice, spying the hobbit’s silhouette at the top of the steps. It was hard to tell, staring up into the torchlit shadows, but Bilbo sounded frightened. Panicked even. He opened his mouth, prepared to tell the halfling he was alright, when another sound caught his attention. A sound that had been there all along, roaring in the background unheeded, only now it was getting louder.

He had barely a second to realise what that meant, and then a wall of water came crashing down over his head.


	56. The Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Soooo.... This chapter... was not supposed to be what it has become. There was going to be a lot more plot advancement and more characters involved and that just, sort of, didn't happen. In the process of being written (and rewritten, and rewritten AGAIN, and rewritten some MORE) this firmly became Dis' chapter, a chance for her to tell her side of the tragedies of the past in the most heartbreaking way possible. It's not really the half and half recipe I had in mind, but it's a chapter, it's written, and right now I'm going to settle for being happy with that and hope that you are too. 
> 
> Read and enjoy,
> 
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT V  
**

**-Here Be Dragons-**

 

**Chapter 56**

**_The Farewell  
_**

 

Dís had seen the nightmare world conjured by Valin's venom once before. The darkness that had held Kíli in its grasp, a malignant evil that meant only harm. She had witnessed the way it took her youngest’ deepest fears, past and present, and conjured them anew, twisting and deforming the truth into a dreadful reality filled with only death and pain and destruction. She had sat at her son’s bedside as he battled to free himself from that realm of lies. So when the shadows descended, when the cold took hold, she braced herself to fight her own battle against whatever devilry Valin's handiwork could conjure...

“You'll freeze if you stand over there. Come sit by the fire.”

...only to find she was not prepared at all.

Her blood ran cold, and she dared not turn, keeping her back to the glow emanating from the space behind her. From the fire she could hear crackling away, with the occasional indignant hiss as it encountered the wet lumber hidden amongst the dry. Ahead of her, darkness still reigned supreme, but it was the soft shadow of nightfall, not the ominous abyss of a presence more dire.

“We'll need to set some more snares tomorrow,” her companion continued conversationally, untroubled by her silence. “If our catch is as good as it has been these past few days we might be able to set aside some money for something other than supper.”

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She knew that, beyond any and all doubt. That didn't stop her heart from thundering in her chest, nor still the familiar name lingering as a whisper on her lips.

“Thorin won't approve, of course, or he'll pretend he doesn't, and scowl and brood all the more just to prove a point.”

“You shouldn't antagonise him so,” the answer escaped her before she had time to check it, a conversation rehearsed and repeated. “He carries enough cares as it is.”

“It does no harm to remind him food and shelter are not the only necessities our people require, even if they are the foremost. Besides, if he's storming about looking for me he's not wearing himself ragged at an anvil, is he? A benefit to both sides, I should think.”

She snorted softly, amused. “You only say that because he cannot stay cross with you for more than a few moments.”

“Ah, but that, dear sister, is because he knows I am right.”

The temptation to turn around was overwhelming, to see again the soft smile that would accompany those words, his eyes flashing between her face and the piece of wood slowly taking shape in his hands. He was always carving something, whenever they had a still moment and he could scavenge a leftover morsel fit for the task. Toys for the children, mugs, plates, bows, trinkets to sell at the local markets. The crown he never seemed satisfied with and she knew was meant for Thorin, a symbol of the choice their people had all made in their hearts long ago, even if Thror still bore the mantle of King.

A pity, then, that he had never had the chance to present it.

Because that was the truth, not whatever this was. No matter how much she might have wished otherwise. No matter how many times she had turned looking for a presence that no longer lingered at her shoulder. No matter how many shadows she had spun to stare at only to realise her mind was playing tricks on her once more. That was all this was, another cruel trick, and yet...

Was this not what she had begged for, once? Just one more night. One more chance to say all she wanted to say. She had grieved, she had moved on, but the memories remained, and she had never forgotten. Would it be so wrong to dwell in those memories a while, knowing it was only an illusion? To give herself a chance to say a proper farewell? What harm could there be when she knew it wasn't real?

Some instinct, slumbering at the back of her mind, stirred and cried warning. A sad, muted thing that barely scraped along the edge of her softening thoughts. She paid it no heed, tension bleeding from her shoulders, the battle she had readied herself for never having arrived. There was nothing out there in the calm night to harm her, the Watch would see to that, and she felt no fear as she turned to put her back to the darkness, walking towards the fire's warmth.

Frerin glanced up at her as she approached, a brief look before he returned his attention to his latest creation, sitting amidst a pile of wood-shavings and haphazardly organised tools. How many times had they sat like this, she wondered, waiting for Thorin to return for the night? Neither of them would retire until he did, no matter how weary the day's labour had left them. They would pass the time exchanging stories of the past, or plans for their future, and by the time Thrain's eldest son appeared in their midst they would always have half a dozen ideas to ply him with, dragging his thoughts away from the trials of the present to focus upon better things to come.

“I've missed this,” she said aloud, though she did not know why. How could one miss what had been a daily routine since she was still a child? “I've missed you.”

Frerin's smile was soft and kind and as gentle as she remembered - _knew_ \- it to be. “There is no need for that anymore, Dís.”

“No,” she agreed slowly, and wondered again at her hesitation. “Is that a dragon?” It was rough, but she was starting to recognise the lines taking shape in his hands. The silhouette had haunted her dreams often enough since Erebor fell. “Haven’t we seen enough of those?”

He paused at her bitter utterance, glancing at her with a pensive look he normally reserved for Thorin’s darker moods.

“Just because something is terrible,” he said slowly, firmly. “Does not mean there is no beauty in it. I will finish this and find some little scamp to gift it to. No doubt it will burn down a few villages along the way, but eventually it will face a champion, be challenged, overcome, and defeated. There will be a celebration, a victory parade, and then the hero shall gallantly be on his way to save the next kingdom in dire need.”

Dís cast the lump of wood in his hands a doubtful glance. “It’s only a toy, Frerin.”

“To you, perhaps.” He gave her a knowing grin. “To them it is an adventure.”

She harrumphed disapprovingly. “You’re going to fill their heads with foolish ideas.”

“I have plenty to spare,” he replied, unabashed. “Which in particular do you mean?”

“You’ll have them convinced they can take on a dragon.”

“Well, maybe they can. Or will be able to. I don’t believe this exile will last forever, Dís. Even if it takes a thousand years to outwait that old lizard, we’ll go home one day.”

“Go home?” she whispered, staring into the firelight and watching a mountain burn. Watching it run red with the blood of her kinsmen, her mother, her friends, her _children_. “No!”

Frerin glanced up at her, startled by the shift in her tone, and frowned. “Dís?”

The pain was real. It gripped her entire body. Sharper still was the shaft of grief that pierced her chest. The veil of deceit fell away, the lie she wanted so badly to believe, and she spoke the truth aloud.

“You’ll never go home, Frerin.”

The campfire roared in front of her eyes, and for a moment her brother’s face changed in the shadows it cast, terror etched across his bloodied features. That was merely an illusion as well, for there had been no recognisable expression left to see when the orcs were done.

“You never… You never see Ered Luin. Or meet Nali. Or hold your nephews.” She drew in a shuddering breath, listing the shared memories of which they had both been bereft. “The champion doesn’t overthrow the dragon in your story, Frerin. This… this is a _lie_.”

“Perhaps, sister.” Unmoved by her declaration, he shrugged. “But it is a good lie. What is wrong with that?”

“Everything.” She shook her head, rising and backing away from the heat of the flames. “I cannot bring you back. It is fruitless to pretend otherwise. This is… this is just a trap meant to ensnare me, and I won’t submit to it.”

“A trap?” He tilted his head in question, and her certainty, solid as stone a moment before, wavered. “What do you mean by that?”

“That you…” The fog was descending again. The complacency. The acceptance. “You’re not… This _isn’t_ …”

She raised a hand to her head, struggling to put order to her thoughts, to remember why she shouldn’t…

“Dís.” A hand closed about her forearm, firm enough to be painful, and she opened her eyes briefly to scowl at Thorin. “Dís, stay with me.”

“I am with you,” she replied, wondering why her own voice sounded so distant. Why Thorin had appeared to make such a demand only to vanish a moment later. Really, he might at least have sat down for a bite to eat.

“Oh dear. She’s wearing that fearsome Durin scowl again, Fí. What do you suppose we’ve done this time?”

Her eyes snapped open wide, a noise escaping her that was both joy and grief as her eyes drank in the sight of one of her most precious memories brought to life. There was Fíli, not yet old enough to walk on his own or make conversation beyond inane babble, perched upon his father’s knee making wild grabs for Nali’s unbraided locks. Untroubled by his son’s antics, Nali chose instead to mark Dís’ return with a wholly absurd observation about her face.

Really, her scowl wasn’t _that_ bad.

“You spoke with Thorin, then?” Ignoring her disdainful glance, Nali continued to cheerfully bounce Fíli on his lap as Dís turned to hang up her cloak. “What did he say?”

“The usual nonsense.” Freeing herself from the last of her travel raiment, Dís moved across to take the seat opposite Nali’s own, holding her arms out as he offered her their giggling bairn. “I swear, if I hear him mention Erebor one more time…”

“He means well,” Nali offered, his eyes never leaving his son. “He just wants to give his people a certain future again.”

“Perhaps he does,” she conceded. “But bringing up what we once had every time we encounter the slightest hindrance is not helping anyone. Erebor is lost to us, it is past time he accepted that.”

“It was home, Dís.” Wrenching his gaze away from their child at last, Nali looked her dead in the eye as he reproached her. “It is not so easy.”

“ _This_ is home now.” A real home. A safe home. Somewhere she could raise her child without fear of the dangers he might encounter. Without Erebor casting its long shadow over all their lives. They were free of it now, and she was glad. She only wished that Thorin could make his peace with their change of fortune, instead of drifting along on the ever-deceptive tide of might-have-beens. “A good home.” That earned her a proud smile from Nali, and she dropped her gaze to Fíli, who was currently doing his best to snare one of the tassels on her tunic in his small hands. “Worthy of any little Durin princeling.”

“Maybe that will convince your brother,” Nali said, eyes twinkling as he moved to crouch before her, drawing Fíli’s attention back to his father’s enticing locks. “When you raise an heir more than worthy of the Durin name in such humble surrounds.”

“When _we_ raise,” she corrected him with a light tap on the head. “Do not think you are getting out of your share of the work.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, milady,” he grinned. “We know better, don’t we, Fí?”

His answer was an indecipherable gurgle and a sharp tug on his hair, but Nali took it as agreement nonetheless, murmuring his own soft nonsense in return. Dís allowed the noise to wash over her, relaxing into her chair as the tension bled from her shoulders. Nali was right, she decided. They would find a way to convince Thorin that Durin’s Folk did not need Erebor to survive. They would build new lives here in Ered Luin, untainted by the wealth that had simultaneously blessed and cursed the royal line. They would raise their son well, and make sure he never knew the suffering that had tainted their own youth.

Yes, they would be happy here. Safe. She did not know why anyone would ever want to leave.  

 

**~The Heart of Erebor  
**

 

Before their run in with the three charming trolls who had spent half the night discussing in what manner their ‘guests’ should be prepared for supper, Fíli and Kíli had nearly drowned chasing a spooked pack pony into a swollen river. They had been rescued, along with the pony, wet and cold and chagrined, and Fíli had decided then and there that he and flooded rivers would not soon meet again.

That resolve had lasted only as long as it had taken Bilbo to shove thirteen dwarves into thirteen barrels and send them careening off down a river that was so full of rocks and small falls it was a wonder Laketown ever received its barrels intact. He’d emerged at the end of that particular escapade battered and bruised and with a newfound hatred for the smell of apples to go along with his growing dislike for waterways in general.

Neither experience had been particularly pleasant, but he would have gladly endured them both a second time to avoid the deadly force now engulfing him.

The sheer weight of the impact was horrific. He felt like he’d been crushed between a Stone Giant and a mountain once again, only this time there was no sanctuary of space to separate the one from the other. He had no sense of direction, no way of knowing up from down, his world transformed into a rushing, relentless flood. If he didn’t drown he would be crushed to death, and there was nothing he could do to save himself. Nothing he could do to save anyone.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind then his head broke the surface. He drew in a desperate inhale, fearing he would be pulled under again at any moment. He could still feel the water tugging at him, a vicious force of nature intent on hurling him headlong into the nearest stone wall, but he wasn’t moving with the current. It took him a moment to realise why, his mind slow to grasp the fact that the steady pressure against his chest was due to the pair of arms wrapped about it, and then a voice laughed in his ear.

“Honestly?” Rin shouted over the roar of the raging torrent. “I wasn’t sure that that would work.”

Fíli didn’t answer him, still trying to figure out exactly how he had escaped certain death. Still trying to catch his breath. The water around them was slowing by the second, draining away faster than he would have thought possible. It wasn’t until his feet touched solid stone that he let himself believe the danger had passed, and only then that Rin released his hold and started to untie the rope attached to his belt, a line Fíli followed from the dwarf it was bound to, up the wall to the landing above where Lnolir and several others had been clinging on for dear life.

“Did you…” he stopped, swallowed, and tried not to stare too hard at the young prince as he asked, “Did you _jump_?”

There was no other way Rin could have reached him so quickly. The stairs were too far away, the water had been moving too swiftly, and it explained why Dain’s son had a rope wound tightly about his waist. There was no other way, and yet Fíli could not quite bring himself to believe what had just happened. Not only because it had worked, but because Rin had even thought to do it in the first place.

Untroubled by Fíli’s incredulity, his cousin beamed at him as if he hadn’t just committed an act of pure Durin recklessness. “Well, I could hardly let you drown now, could I?”

“You’re a madman!” One of Rin’s companions had made his way down the stairs to join them, as much anger in his tone as relief. “That rope was an inch away from snapping!”

“Aye,” Rin agreed, smile undimmed. “Luck sided with the Line of Durin this day. Won’t it make a grand tale for the Great Hall?”

“Only if Lord Dain doesn’t wring your neck first,” came the taut response, to which Rin only laughed.

Fíli, deciding that he had, in fact, survived his imminent death, promptly sat down, unable to muster even the chagrin worthy of discovering he was seated in a pool of water.

“Fíli!” He knew that voice, snapping his head up in time to see Dwalin loping towards him through the knee-high lake, looking for all the world like he’d just seen a ghost. “Are you alright, lad?” Drawing near, the warmaster crouched beside the young dwarf, his concern written across his face for anyone to see. “Fíli?”

“No.” How could he be, he thought miserably, when all this had been for naught? Now that the fear for his own fate had passed the realisation of what his failure meant was dawning on him. He had sworn to his Uncle that he was capable of doing this one task. Of protecting his home. Averting disaster. And he had _failed_. “I couldn’t… There wasn’t time… I was too late, Dwalin.”

“Too late?” Dwalin met his gaze and lifted a brow in question. “What are you talking about, lad?”

“T-the flood. They let it go, and… and…” He trailed off, confused by the feral smile spreading across the warrior’s face. “Dwalin?”

“That little shower?” the warmaster said airily. “It might’ve been strong enough to do some damage here, but by the time it reaches the lower levels it won’t be much more than a trickle.”

Fíli blinked, then he frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Dwalin shrugged. “I might have emptied a reservoir or two whilst you were dealing with Valin’s men.”

“Oh.” He let that sink in a moment. Let himself examine the truth that he had not, against all expectations, unwittingly sentenced all his kinsmen to death. He probably should have been feeling something like joy in that moment, but a sudden wave of exhaustion overwhelmed even his sense of relief. “That’s good, then.”

“Good?” Rin’s voice came from somewhere above him, distant and yet near at the same time. “We’ve won, Fíli! Valin is finished.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We’ve won.”

And then he promptly passed out.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~  
**

 

“Ma?”

“Yes, dearest?” Dís did not look up from her needlework, intent on the sigil she was weaving into the deep blue fabric. The silver thread had been expensive, a waste of money Thorin would have said, yet he had never once complained about actually wearing the cloaks she wove for him, and it comforted her to know he carried a part of home with him in all his wanderings.

“ _Ma_.” Not content to only have half of her attention, her youngest tugged firmly on her skirts, forcing her to set her work aside to gaze down into those fretful dark eyes.

“I am listening, Kíli,” she promised. “What troubles you?”

He frowned at her, the expression intent despite the youth of the face that bore it, and it should not have reminded her of Thorin so but it always did. “You need to come back, ma.”

She could not stop herself from frowning at his words, even as she tried to hide it from him. He said such strange things sometimes, her little one. It had worried her once, but Nali had been quick to reassure her that there was no need to fret just yet. It was merely an oddity of childhood Kíli would be sure to grow out of with time. She wasn’t certain she believed that, but she could not deny that Kíli’s oddness was not doing anyone any harm.

“Nonsense, little one,” she chided him gently. “I am exactly where I am supposed to be.” She moved to pick up her needlework, but he tugged on her skirts again. Harder this time, more urgent.

“Ma.” There was fear in his voice and she turned back to him, perplexed. “Ma, you need to come back.”

“Come back where, Kíli?” she said, trying to soothe him as she took his hand in her own. “What is the matter?”

“Please, ma.” He pulled on her hand, and there were tears in his eyes now, a desperation that didn’t belong on the face of a child. “Please, you have to come back.”

“Kíli.” She allowed him to pull her to her feet, only to crouch down before him, laying her free hand upon his shoulder. “Kíli, what has happened?”

Fear touched her heart even as she asked the question, wondering if he had been sent to fetch her. Had there been an accident at the mine? The shafts were old, and even with the new reinforcements some of the ancient workings were still not as solid as they should have been. But she would have heard the bells ringing if that were the case, and surely Tyrth would have come to her himself with any such news.

Perhaps there was word of Thorin and Dwalin. They were due to return any day now, and there was always a horrible period of waiting and wondering if they were simply late or had encountered trouble on the road. Had anything happened to either his King or his brother, however, Balin would have already been on her doorstep. He would never have entrusted so dire a message to so young a messenger.

Fíli. Could it be Fíli? But, no, he was out with his father for the day, she would not have heard of one without the other, and if some misfortune had befallen them both then Jorunn would have come, ever ready to account for the dwarf he had mentored.

There were countless other possibilities, of course, and Kíli was offering no explanation, simply pulling on her hand with firm persistence, demanding that she follow. For a reason she could not name she still hesitated to do so, wrestling against the absurd notion that if she stepped away from the warmth of the fire and the comfort of her favourite armchair then it would all simply vanish into oblivion.

“Ma?”

Her son’s plaintive appeal spurred her into action, and she rose once again, allowing him to tow her along out of the room and into the hallway. The doorway to the outside world loomed ahead of them, flung open without a care for the cold air slipping inside. The sun was hanging low enough in the sky so as to obscure any view of what lay beyond the threshold, perfectly framing the silhouette of her husband as Nali cocked his head at her in question, concern dimming his usual smile.

“Dís?” Her name was a question, and then he added another, “Where are you going?”

“Kíli needs me,” she replied. There was a truth behind those words that made them seem heavier. Irrefutable. More solid and real than the soft light playing along the walls that hemmed her in.

“Kíli?” Nali asked, his voice still nothing but innocent inquiry. “But he is right here.”

He was. Standing at her side and clinging to her hand so tightly it was starting to hurt. She glanced down at him, only to find his gaze fixed upon his father, his lips parted, and something like fear spreading across his face.

That… wasn’t right. What reason did he have to fear Nali? His father, who had always been so gentle with Fíli; so attentive and cheerful, determined to be worthy of his son’s affection. Who hadn’t minded that Kíli was a fussy bairn, never ready to sleep when he should or entertain himself when others could not be spared. It was true that as Kíli had grown older Nali had not spent as much time with him, but that was because… because…

The hallway seemed to shudder, and Dís drew in a sharp breath, feeling a sting in her chest that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Kíli was still holding her hand in a deathgrip, and she knew why. For the second time she _knew._

“You’re dead.”

It sounded absurd when she said it aloud. Nali was standing before her, solid as stone, living and breathing, flesh and blood. Yet the words were true. They were true, and this was false.

“Dís?” It was Nali’s face, twisted into a look of hurt confusion, and Dís took a step back as he took one forward, instinctively pulling Kíli behind her. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

She wanted to believe him. There seemed to be no reason why she shouldn’t. Nothing to suggest the feelings sweeping over her were anything but an illusion. And yet Kíli was beside her, trembling and uncertain and refusing to let her go, and that was real as well. She could feel it. Feel the pain of his grip and the fear that made his fingers shake inside her own.

“You’re dead,” she repeated the words, and they did not sound so absurd now. “I saw your body.” She remembered the horror. She remembered the blood. She remembered the shaft that had pierced her Nali’s heart. “I _buried_ you.”

“Dís, that’s not true. I’m not–”

“But you are.” She couldn’t bear to let him finish. Not when she was already crying, feeling the cruel pain of an old wound tearing open anew. “You left me alone, Nali.” She bent down, lifting Kíli into her arms and holding him close as she edged forwards. Towards the door and the spectre both. “We lost this future a long time ago.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she couldn’t stand to listen, making a dash for the threshold only to feel his hand snare about her wrist, pulling her to a halt and making her turn to face him.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “We could be happy here, Dís. You and me and the boys. We could be free. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What I wanted doesn’t matter anymore.” Gently, she pushed his hand away. “I cannot stay. My children need me.” She lifted her head then, looking straight at the ghost of a past that had never been. “Nali would have understood that.”

She turned away, the threshold rose to meet her, bright and blinding, and she didn’t hesitate as she stepped across the border into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A sidenote about Valin and his poisons. I've taken all the liberties allowed to me in a fantasy setting with this one, as well as a dribble of what we canonically see Sauron's poisons of being capable of. When Kili was struck down, the mental weapon used against him to try and make him give up was his own crushing fears. This would never work for Dis, who is the type to laugh fear in the face and barrel on through regardless. Therefore the best way to stop her from fighting was to make her think she didn't need to fight at all. Or, at least, that was the logic behind this chapter. Whether or not it is actually logical I'll leave up to you. 
> 
> As for Fili's escape, the answer to that one is 'because I can and because Durins are idiots'. The end.


	57. The Tainted Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! ;-)
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT VI**

**-The King Beneath the Mountain-**

**Chapter 57**

**_The Tainted Heart  
_**

The throne room of Erebor was untouched.

In the midst of the work that had gone on to restore the kingdom it stood like a relic to a time now past. The high walkway was still chipped and marred where Smaug had once sunk his claws, and the throne itself was made half of shattered stone, destroyed by a lash of the dragon’s tail years before. Dust lay heavy upon the floor, undisturbed since Thorin last trod this path, and it was clear none of Dain’s court had seen fit to visit the Hall of the King. Where the rest of the Lonely Mountain had been tended to with all the careful attention Durin’s Folk poured into all their work, Thror’s seat of power stood abandoned, forgotten, and neglected by the hands of its current custodians.

It might have angered him once, when folly and pride had ruled him as surely as he had once meant to rule Erebor, but not now. Now it seemed fitting that the throne room still stood, unchanged, waiting on a decision no one was prepared to make. Until a King was named this grand chamber served no purpose save to act as a reminder of past mistakes, and Thorin wondered briefly if that had been Dain’s intent; A monument to the tragedies of the past, a memorial to the many lives spent for naught.

Or perhaps the Lord of the Iron Hills had not had such lofty ideals. Dain was a practical ruler, if nothing else, and with all that had unfolded in his domain Thorin doubted he would have prioritised the restoration of a symbolic seat of power over other concerns. There had been more important battles to wage, distractions aplenty, and only now that the danger had been confronted and defeated could any mind turn to more frivolous matters.

If he was truthful with himself, Thorin was still struggling to believe that it was truly over. After everything that had happened, all that they had been through, it seemed at once a resolution too long in coming and yet too swiftly achieved. All the weeks they had spent traveling to the mountain, all the days spent agonising over what he had done and fearing what he might yet do, all the hours spent planning their return, and it had all come down to a single battle in the end. Erebor was reclaimed. The villains defeated. The day won.

If only it could be so simple.

Dís would tell him it was. That he was making mountains out of molehills again. That is, if she had recovered enough to do so. She had not bounced back as quickly from her injury as Kíli had, and Thorin couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the names she had uttered in her fever dreams.

Whatever she had witnessed at the hands of Valin’s venom, however, she was not yet ready to speak of it. Thorin did not resent her the time she had asked for, just as he did not blame Fíli for his subdued demeanour after the life he had been forced to take. He wished there was something he could do for either of them besides wait for the wounds to heal, for the scars to settle, but he understood that there were some battles that could not be fought with steel; Battles against oneself, and one’s own treacherous mind.

And thus his thoughts circled back to the reason he was standing before Thror’s abandoned throne, looking for answers where he knew he would find none. Cracked stone and dusty halls did not speak of those who had come before, the many deeds to which they had paid silent witness, and they could not tell him if the blood that flowed in his veins was as much his curse as his birthright.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He started at the intrusion, too lost in his own musings to have heard Dain’s approach, eyes wrenched from the empty throne as his cousin came to stand beside him. “After all Durin’s Folk have endured to reclaim their home, the greatest danger to our people remains ourselves.”

He did not know how to answer that, not least because he was not yet certain of how things stood between the Lord of the Iron Hills and himself. There had not been time to speak properly after Valin’s death. There had been injured to see to, defences to secure, allies to appease… Dís had been stalking the edges of death, Fíli had injured himself again, and Thorin simply hadn’t found the time to address what wrongs might still linger here. Dain, it seemed, had grown tired of waiting, and chose now to approach the matter as he always did; directly.

“I never wanted your crown, Thorin.” In the absence of a response, Dain spoke again, “It seemed to me as much a harbinger of doom as a beacon to rally behind. Death followed it no matter where it strayed, and did not differentiate between those who wore it and those who stood behind it.”

A part of him wanted to argue, but how could he? Dain’s words were truth. For every battle that had been won countless lives had been spent. For every home found another had been destroyed. What had following their King brought Erebor’s people, truly? Suffering and sacrifice and sorrow.

“But perhaps that was unfair.” Dain seemed to be musing aloud now, uncaring as to whether Thorin offered him a reply or not. “The world is full of misfortunes, and one cannot lay the blame for every disaster at the foot of a single throne. The inaction of one can be as harmful as the endeavours of another.”

“What are you trying to say, Dain?” Thorin broke his silence, dreading the answer as much as he wanted to hear it.

“I never wanted your crown,” the Lord of the Iron Hills repeated. “Yet, for better or for worse, it came to me. Erebor is in my charge now. I may have proved a poor custodian, just another king who let the troubles of his court bleed over into the lives of his people, but that does not make them any less my responsibility.”

“You do not trust me.” It did not surprise him, nor could he could find it within himself to begrudge Dain his suspicion. How could he blame others for doubting when no one feared his own weaknesses as much as himself?

“I do not trust any of us.” Dain shook his head, eyes drifting back to the shattered seat of Thror. “Not with Erebor. This mountain seems to breed madness.”

“Or we breed it ourselves.” Erebor was only a mountain. They could blame the allure of its riches, the depths of its caverns, the curse of its beauty all they wanted. It did not change the facts. Treasure alone did not kill, only the hands that grasped it. “And carry it with us wherever we go.”

Dain grunted. “Not a cheerful thought.”

“Or a cheerful subject,” he agreed. “Though I doubt you came here to find merriment.”

“No.” A beat of silence, and then, “It cannot sit empty forever.”

It could not, and that was where his turmoil lay. He did not know if he dared reach for his rightful seat a second time, when the first had wrought such ruin, but neither could Erebor march leaderless into the darkness that was coming. Gandalf had chosen to encourage Thorin’s quest for a reason, and an empty throne could pose as much of a threat to the East’s stability as a sleeping dragon. But so could a mad King, and that was what he feared most.

“It is not like you to waver so,” Dain said pointedly. “After the way Dís spoke during our brief meeting, I thought you’d be more eager to reclaim your birthright.”

“Dís has her own thoughts on the matter.” And no qualms about sharing them, loudly, with all who would listen. “It does not follow that I must share them.”

“What of my thoughts?” Dain said. “Would you pay them any heed?”

Thorin inclined his head by way of an answer, inviting his cousin to speak, and Dain continued.

“The gold sickness affected many lives, before and after Erebor was lost, and we two are but among the many left scarred by Thror’s decline into madness. I did not grieve his death then, as one should the loss of a king, for I thought it to be a mercy in many ways; for those who suffered through their loyalty to him, and for Thror himself, free at last from the thralls of his own mind.

“It did not occur to me that there might be an alternative, a way back from the precipice. Thror was lost, and I believed him beyond salvation. I still do, because even when we were clambering over piles of our own dead he did not come to his senses. His own family could have been cut down before him and, so long as he had his prize in the end, I do not think he would have cared.

“But you did, Thorin. When death was all around us and you had a choice to stay and guard your riches or come to our aid you chose the latter. You did what Thror could not. You overcame temptation, and that is worth something in my eyes.”

“That was more Fíli’s doing than mine.” The memory was still fresh, still haunting. “He pleaded with me... for Kíli’s life.”

“And you listened,” Dain uttered softly. “Can you honestly say Thror would have done the same?”

“No.” He gritted his teeth, remembering the words Frerin had thrown at their grandfather on the eve of the battle. Words that had gone unheard and unheeded. “He would not.”

“So now you understand.” Dain gave a sharp nod. “I do not trust you, Thorin, not anymore than I trust myself, or Bard, or Thranduil, or any one of us who were willing to let blood be spilt for the sake of riches. We are all in danger of falling the moment we allow ourselves to be complacent. You know this. You have already fought this battle once, and I will trust you to win it again, should the need arise.”

“Why?” He had to ask. He could not simply accept such seemingly blind faith. From Balin and the others perhaps, but not from Dain. His cousin had lost far too much to Thror’s madness for that. “You never believed in retaking Erebor, and you and I have never seen eye to eye, yet you would support me in this? Now, after everything that has happened?”

“I have my reasons,” Dain replied guardedly. “Not least among them that I would far rather be faced with a mad king than to become that king myself.”

That surprised a laugh out of Thorin, though it bore no humour, and lasted only a moment. “You always did value honesty over tact, cousin.”

“That may be true,” the other conceded. “But you and I both know what would happen if I tried to claim the throne now, when you are here, the Arkenstone in your possession, and Valin slain by your hand. You are the hero of the hour, Thorin, like it or not. They will look to you to take the throne and no other.”

“The Arkenstone you gave to Kili,” Thorin reminded him. “Without a second glance, if he tells the tale true.”

“It is only a jewel, Thorin.”

“It is more than that.”

“Perhaps, but as it did not belong to me, parting with it was no trial.”

Thorin smiled, shaking his head slighty. “And still you claim to fear the hold this mountain’s wealth may take on you.”

“What I fear, Thorin, is that the mistakes of old will be repeated. That the Seven will continue to stand divided, apart, each bent upon seizing power from the others. They need you, Thorin. Erebor needs her king.” Dain drew in a breath, then asked, “That is what you set out to do, is it not?”

“No,” Thorin corrected him. “I set out to kill a dragon. It was a much simpler task.”

“That is only because you were too stubborn to admit that the dragon was just as likely to kill you all the moment you set foot inside the mountain. What you call a ‘simpler task’ others called impossible.”

“You were one of those others, as I recall.”

“And I do not regret those doubts. You survived that quest by the skin of your teeth, Thorin. A reckless victory that was bought by the steady hand of a bargeman, no less. The risks you were ready to take were risks I could not take, and still would not, even knowing the outcome. But that was then, and this is now. If you wish to claim what is yours than I will support you, Thorin. The Iron Hills are ready to stand behind their King.”

“A leap of faith for you, Dain. I remember you being more cautious.”

“We all must take a leap of faith from time to time. We’re Durins, Thorin. It’s in our blood.”

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

In the days since Valin’s downfall, Kíli had walked the road to the Hidden Door back and forth more times than he could count. It was not an unpleasant journey, and he enjoyed the chance to escape Erebor and the tension slowly building within its walls, but the truth remained that he did not do so entirely for his own benefit. Whilst his mother remained in the healing halls under the careful watch of Tuilinn and Dain’s healers, Fíli seemed resolved to avoid being beneath the weight of the Lonely Mountain any more than was absolutely necessary. In the absence of a permanent sanctuary he had claimed the small alcove outside the Hidden Door as his own, and Kíli now divided his time between his mother’s bedside and his brother’s refuge.  

Fíli had chosen his haven well. The view was unchallenged, an unbroken horizon of the lands that unfolded outwards from Erebor’s western face. At the furthest reach of that horizon lay the indistinct haze of the Misty Mountains, draped in the fog of distance, as untouchable now as they had once seemed when viewed from their other side. Nearer, Mirkwood spread its arms to the north and south, a tapestry of greens and browns decorated with the odd wisp of more vibrant colours.

It all looked peaceful from such a remote outlook, a deception Kíli knew was easily confuted upon closer inspection. True peace was a rarity these days, when armed warriors and brave defenders protected even Rivendell’s tranquillity. The nearest thing Kíli had seen to it since leaving Ered Luin was Bilbo’s home in the Shire, and even that peace was bought by the unrewarded, quiet vigilance of the Dúnedain.

He wondered how the Rangers were faring now, hoping that the kindness they had offered to a few stray dwarves had been rewarded by a change in their own ill fortune. Then he mildly rebuked himself for letting his thoughts wander so far from the purpose that had brought him out of Erebor’s depths in the first place.

Fíli had not reacted to his presence, seated on a large outcrop, his gaze as distant as the string of mountains dividing Eriador from Rhovanion. His injured leg was stretched out before him, still healing from the additional harm it had suffered during the struggle to save his people, but Kíli knew it was not the pain of that wound that drove his elder brother to seek such solitude.

Fíli had spoken only a little of what had happened during his fight with Tárr, though Kíli had found both Rin and Dwalin willing to fill in any details that were lacking. Whilst Dwalin seemed to consider it a fight well won, and Rin a fit comeuppance for the traitor, Fíli had yet to reconcile himself with what he had been forced to do. It was something Kíli understood all too well, his own feelings just as conflicted despite the fact he had not been present when it happened.

Tárr had killed their father, mistakenly or not, that was a fact to which the maddened dwarf had confessed. The just punishment for his crime would have been a traitor’s death even had he survived his fight with Fíli. To be the one to personally deliver that death, though… It was not a responsibility Kíli would have wanted, to end the life of one of his kinsmen, no matter how twisted that life might have become. So he understood the way Fíli carried that burden like a weight upon his shoulders he had yet to accustom himself to. It would take time for his brother to come to terms with what he had been forced to do, and, without fit words to offer, Kíli had made up his mind to offer support in the only way he could; with his presence alone.

Exhaling quietly, he settled himself on the smooth stone beside Fíli, allowing the silence to last another dozen heartbeats before gently breaking it. “Thorin was looking for you. For us,” he amended almost at once. He waited, letting the quiet settle around them again, and then added, “He wanted to discuss the coronation.”

Fíli’s stare jerked back to meet Kíli’s own with a near quizzical look that barely masked his surprise. “The coronation? I thought… Wasn’t that still undecided?”

“Uncle is still undecided, I think,” Kíli agreed, idly tapping his heel against his chosen seat. “But Dain came to see him. He’s worried about what will happen if the throne sits empty for too much longer.”

“And Thorin is worried about what will happen if he claims it.” Fíli breathed the words out in heavy sigh. “What does ma think?”

“I don’t know,” Kíli admitted, stifling the swell of worry that confession brought with it. Dís was not herself, no more than Fíli or Thorin were at present, and it felt so _strange_ to be so calm when they were all struggling. He _was_ calm, though; steady in the knowledge the immediate threat to his family and people had been thwarted, confident that whatever challenges yet faced them they would overcome. It was a far cry from what he had felt the last time he had faced the prospect of Erebor’s empty throne, but maybe that was simply because he was not being asked to wear the crown this time.

But even as he thought it he knew that was not the reason. Not solely. The terror and panic of that dreadful experience were absent now because he was not alone. Not abandoned and outcast. Not the last. His family were with him, even if the scars of the battles they had fought to come this far ran deep, and he was willing to fight back the shadows on their behalf for as long as they could not do so themselves.

“I wish there was something we could do to help,” Fíli uttered subduedly, his thoughts never having moved on from Dís’ quiet grief since awakening. Erebor had brought back many memories for her, even before Valin had worked his evil, and few of them seemed to have brought her any sort of happiness. Instead, old wounds that had never healed had been pried open anew. “This… doesn’t really feel like a victory.”

“I know.”

It didn’t. Even Kíli, free of the dark thrall that seemed to have enveloped his kin, could admit that much. Valin had been defeated, his plans undone, but the damage Erebor had suffered in the meanwhile… harm that had been inflicted _by one of their own_. That, above all, overshadowed whatever triumph they might have been able to wring from their success. Durin’s Folk had suffered too much at the hands of madness to so lightly dismiss it.

Perhaps it was time they addressed that openly.

Thror’s madness had hung over his line for as long as Kíli could remember, a veil of shame no one wished to acknowledge directly. His descent into insanity had been whispered of in Ered Luin, but never raised in proper conversation, and even during their quest to reclaim Erebor Thorin’s fears had been his own, held close to his heart and never shared, even when those around him knew of them. And when the worst had happened, and the gold sickness had struck, nobody had wanted to call it that. Even before Fíli had succumbed and the brothers had spoken together in hushed voices of confronting their uncle, they had talked only of his stubbornness, not of the illness that drove it.

Would things have been different had any of them been brave enough to speak what they were all thinking? He didn’t know, and he doubted events already so firmly in motion could have been altered by just a few well-placed words. Now, though, they had a chance to right the mistakes of the past, to prevent history from repeating itself, but only if they were willing to recognise that history for what it was.

Thror had failed his people; there was no denying that. He may have been a good king once, but his fall from grace had been devastating for all those who surrounded him. Thorin and Fíli had both strayed perilously close to following in his footsteps, and Kíli had betrayed his own kinsmen, handing a precious heirloom to the enemy for the sake of his family, not his kingdom. Dain had been as ready to fight a war over Erebor’s wealth as any of them, and, whilst he had condemned Thror’s actions in a way few others had been bold enough to do openly, he had still been blind to the treachery in his own court.

Their mistakes were many. None of them were innocent in this matter, free of blame for what had befallen, and pretending they were would be no more beneficial than allowing themselves to drown in guilt. Thorin had been right when he had chosen to confess his misdeeds to his people, the way they had rallied behind him despite the harsh light he had cast upon his own actions was proof of that, and the example he had set needed to be followed.

If a coronation was to go ahead, if any sort of healing was to begin, they must shed the same light on those parts of Erebor’s past that many would prefer go forgotten. The things people had buried, unable or unwilling to face, could not be left to fester as they had before. Facing his own deepest fears, revealing those fears to others, had taught Kíli that much, and he bent his mind now towards the best way to go about doing the same here.

Casting a sidelong glance at his silent sibling, Kíli wondered if the answer was simpler than his spinning thoughts were trying to make it. When the gold sickness had claimed the Company and Kíli had been desperate to find any solution that would not end in bloodshed he had turned to that which had always held a certain sway over Erebor’s fate; The Heart of the Mountain. He had known that that, and that alone might be enough to turn his uncle aside from the war he seemed intent on starting, and, though it had failed then, he wondered if the answer lay still in the stone resting now in the inner pocket of his tunic.

And yet, precious in the eyes of many though the Arkenstone may be, it was just a stone in the end. Whether or not it resided in Erebor’s treasuries had no true bearing on the destiny of the mountain or its people, and the oaths the Seven had sworn on it at the feet of Thror no longer held the same importance they had then. Those old alliances between the houses had crumbled after Smaug came, and they had not been rebuilt when the jewel had found its way back into the hands of its rightful owners.

And why should they be? The Arkenstone had been a symbol of Thror’s right to rule, and Thror’s alone. Bound thus to the King, it had come to bear much of the same taint as Thror himself. It was the emblem of a ruler who had spiralled into madness and spilled the blood of hundreds who might have been saved. For all of its beauty and worth, was that truly the basis upon which Thorin should build his new kingdom? The sign of rank he would use to claim the loyalty of the other houses? It didn’t seem right, and yet neither did abandoning all that the heirloom represented. It was, after all, a piece of the very history Kíli felt needed to be recognised. 

He paused then, stiffening, because that was exactly what the Arkenstone was; a piece of the past. Of a bloody legacy and a fallen King. Ignoring what it represented would not appease those harmed by the mistakes that had surrounded its existence. And yet, as a symbol of those very mistakes, a symbol of a stained past, it did carry weight. Perhaps it was time to put that to good use. To lay the withered Heart of Erebor to rest once and for all, and with it the grievances that still shrouded the Lonely Mountain’s future.

Eager now he had a course of action before him, Kíli rose, resting a hand briefly on his brother’s shoulder in an act of solidarity before turning to go back the way he had come. Fíli was used to his comings and goings by now, so did not question his abrupt departure. For a moment Kíli considered going back, explaining the idea that was slowly taking shape in the back of his mind, but ultimately he decided against it. He would tell Fíli later, once he was more certain of what he meant to do.

For now he needed to speak with Lofi. The elderly councillor had lived through the majority of the past events that were still bearing down on the present, despite their having faded into memory long ago. Kíli knew this would have to be handled carefully, and he was also well aware the intricacies of diplomacy often escaped him, so Lofi’s help in ensuring he did not somehow make the situation worse would be invaluable.

It did not take him long to find the elderly dwarf, pottering around as he always was amidst the records that had survived dragon fire and the weathering of time. Balin was with him, helping to sort through the stacks of scrolls Dain had not prioritised when restoring the mountain keep, and Kíli offered his uncle’s advisor a polite nod as he swept past, making a beeline for the table where Lofi was doing his work.

“Prince Kíli,” Lofi glanced up with a smile as he drew near, using the more formal address even Tyrth had adopted since taking up residence inside Erebor. It made Kíli vaguely uncomfortable, but he was learning not to mind. “Come to pay these dusty old relics a visit, have you?”

There was a twinkle in the scribe’s eyes that suggested he was referring to himself as much as the scrolls spread out before him, and that, more than anything else, put Kíli at ease as he drew up a stool and sat down across from the elder.

“I had a question to ask,” he said directly. “If you are not too busy.”

“Ask away, lad,” Lofi replied, forgetting his formality for a moment as he waved a hand at the table’s contents. “These pages have waited long enough a few more minutes won’t hurt.”

“I was just wondering…” he hesitated, abruptly uncertain. “Well, what a proper coronation would entail?”

“A good question.” Lofi adjusted his spectacles, squinting a little as he peered at the young prince. “It has been a long time since Durin’s Folk has seen such a spectacle. Thror’s father was slain by the cold drakes whilst Durin’s Folk dwelt still in the Grey Mountains, and there was no ceremony held for his successor. When Thror came to Erebor to build his kingdom anew and became known as King Beneath the Mountain there was talk of a proper crowning, but in the end all that was settled upon was the Swearing of the Oaths. Thror had ruled for years by that point, he wanted only to reaffirm his authority over the Seven, not restake a claim none would think to challenge.”

“But there must have been a tradition, surely?” Kíli pressed.

“Oh, aye, no doubt there was. And still is, for the dwarf lords of their respective houses. But those traditions differ from clan to clan, and are for the anointing of lords, not kings. In times past it was not uncommon for ruling lords to pass their title onto their heirs before they died, but that has not been a reality for Durin’s Folk for many generations.”

Kíli considered that, sitting in silence for a moment, before posing his next question, “Then, had all gone well, Thror might have been expected to pass the throne to Thráin before his death?”

“Well, that would have depended on Thror himself, of course,” Lofi replied, adjusting his spectacles again. “But yes. A ruler should be firm of mind and body both, and age does inevitably catch up with all of us. It is the prerogative of a good king to know when it is time to step aside and let younger hands grasp the reins, and if the manner of succession does not end in the death of the elder monarch, they can be a great boon to a younger ruler new to the throne. Of course, with Thror and Thráin both passed into Mahal’s keeping, and Erebor so recently reclaimed, Thorin’s own coronation will be something far removed from such peaceful transitions of power.”

Kíli nodded, having already seen ample evidence of that much. “That is why he must prove his claim, even though everyone knows it is his.”

“Yes,” Lofi agreed easily, if with slight hints of discontent in his tone. “To the Seven, it is as if Erebor is a new kingdom once more, and yet it also holds a wealth of history and demands upon their loyalties they cannot refute. Thorin is Thror’s rightful heir by blood, that is not in doubt, but the rightful heir to his kingdom? His throne? His allies? These things he must prove. Fortunately for us, he possesses both Thror’s crown and the Arkenstone, one a symbol of his rightful station, one of the loyalties it is his right to command. So long as we who followed him into exile remain ready to stand behind him now in support, I believe the Seven will fall into line.”

“Is that what we want, though?” Kíli wondered aloud, speaking more to himself than Lofi now. “Resentful loyalty offered only because of an oath their forefathers made to Thror? I know uncle hoped to use the Arkenstone to rally an army to defeat Smaug, but he has been defeated. Things are different now. Very different, and I can’t help but think that trying to tie the old alliances back together again is a mistake.”

Lofi’s expression was hard to read. A mix of pensiveness, surprise, and sudden calculation. Kíli endured his scrutiny, trying desperately not to shift in his seat, and was relieved when the old dwarf finally spoke, “An interesting thought, Prince Kíli. Might I ask what prompted it?”

“The Arkenstone,” Kíli said without hesitation. “The oaths of the Seven were sworn upon it, oaths to Thror, and yet… it wasn’t those oaths that won Thorin loyal followers. You and the other Councillors, the people of Ered Luin, Nordinbad, they don’t follow Thorin because of oaths they swore to Thror, they follow him because he proved himself to them. Why should the Seven be any different?”

“A very astute observation,” Lofi said, a soft glow of approval threading through his words. “But Thorin proving himself to the other houses will likely not be easy. Too much has passed for them to be quick to trust, if they ever decide to trust again at all.”

“Which is why the Arkenstone is a mistake.” Kíli nodded, more confident now. “The old alliances are dead. Trying to bring them back will only result in weak ties, and Erebor needs strong allies, not false friends.”

“You are suggesting Thorin does not use the Arkenstone as a part of his coronation, then?” Lofi inquired idly, lifting a quill from the desk to dance between his fingers. “Forego the oath swearing altogether? It will certainly make things easier in the short term, though building alliances is a long, laborious process even with a good foundation to begin with, and we will not necessarily have that here.”

Kíli did not let himself answer straight away, trying to put his thoughts into good order, to not let his own feelings distort his argument. Lofi had listened well so far, which was encouraging, but he was still not certain how anyone would react to what he was honestly starting to believe would be the best fate for Erebor’s so-called crowning glory.

“When we set out to reclaim Erebor,” he began slowly. “Thorin never talked about claiming the throne so he could rule as Thror had. The reason we made that journey, took that risk, was to give Durin’s Folk a proper home again. _That_ is the King Thorin was to Ered Luin, and I think… I think maybe that is the King he needs to be here.”

“King to his people first, and his kingdom second?” A smile twitched on the scribe’s lips. “That too, may not be so easy. Ered Luin was a humble settlement, without any of the trappings that surround us here. Kings in castles are different creatures.”

“Only if they choose to be,” Kíli argued. “Dain didn’t worry about the Seven, only about the care of those in his charge, and if it hadn’t been for Valin then Erebor would have been at peace right now.”

Lofi did not argue. “There is much truth in what you say, Prince Kíli. But, whilst the old traditions have largely been forgotten, they do still exist. Dain, as I understand it, never was crowned, nor did he choose to name himself King. Even if he wishes only to rule Erebor now, and wait on the Seven to make their own choices in the future, Thorin needs to raise himself to the station that is his right by birth. The throne cannot sit empty forever; a king must be crowned.”

“I know.” And Thorin did as well, even if he had been trying to avoid that fact right up until Dain had forced him to confront it. “But, before that, I think… Well, great-grandfather never had a funeral, did he?”

“Thror?” Lofi looked surprised again. “No, I suppose he didn’t. Not a proper laying to rest, anyway. There was no time for ceremony after Moria. Or even a proper burial. We were homeless, devastated, and on the enemy’s doorstep. It burned us to leave them like that, to send them to Mahal’s Hall in such a fashion, but we had no choice.”

“We do now.”

That calculating look was back, and Lofi actually leaned across the table as he spoke, “What are you suggesting, lad?”

“Ma is not herself,” he explained his reasons first. “Coming back to Erebor has dug up some painful memories, and I’m sure she is not the only one for whom that is true. The exiles that are coming home do so knowing the people they left behind will not be here when they arrive. I think it would help ma, and others too, if they had a proper chance to say their farewells.”

Lofi nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Thráin’s body was never found,” he said aloud, remembering. “And Frerin… Well, that was hard on all of us. It is not a bad idea, lad. A chance to pay our respects to those who were not so fortunate, and farewell the families we have left behind. Remembering the past before starting over anew. It would mean a lot to a great many. We might even be able to set aside a chamber down in the burial vaults. A memorial, of sorts, for those who never returned to Erebor.”

“That would be perfect,” Kíli agreed easily, speaking aloud the thought that had first brought him here. “And a fitting resting place for the Arkenstone.”

Lofi blinked once. Then again. “You wish to bury a symbol of Thorin’s right to rule?”

“It is stained by the blood of all those who died when Thror lost his mind,” Kíli reminded him sombrely. “The dead have more claim to it than the Line of Durin ever will. This will make sure we never forget that.”


	58. The Trial of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin faces his first challenge in the path to his ascension, and Kili and Fili plot like the young devils they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonders never cease...

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT VI**

**-The King Beneath the Mountain-**

**Chapter 58**

**_The Trial of the King  
_**

Thorin stood at the head of the long table, one hand resting on the back of the chair he had yet to claim as his own, his eyes fixed on the doors that granted entrance to the Royal Council Chamber. Truthfully, it should have been Dain standing in his place; the Lord of the Iron Hills was also the Lord of Erebor for the time being, and this room was his to preside over. But Dain had been firm about the manner in which this situation was to be handled, and Thorin had not thought it worth the time to argue. There would be more than enough fuel to feed the fires without lighting his own pyre.

A part of him still wondered at the wisdom of accepting the charge so many seemed determined to foist upon him. Whilst it was true a crowned King in Erebor would encourage the renewing of old alliances, there was also a chance his very presence would sow just as much division as unity. This would not be a smooth succession, no matter which way the sword stroke fell, and he grieved for the toll that might yet take on his closest kin. His quest to reclaim the mountain had already cost them dearly, what right did he now have to demand more?

But that was his own doubts and fears speaking, not necessarily the true state of affairs. If this past year had taught him anything it was that what he often thought he could not possibly ask would be freely given without the need to ask at all. It had happened often enough now he should have learned to expect it, yet still it surprised him, a gift he would never take for granted. Never _again_. His hand tightened minutely around the chairback at that bitter reminder. Thankfully, before his thoughts could spiral further, the doors at the other end of the room swung open, and the gathering Dain had called on his behalf – if not entirely with his consent – began to assemble.

Those he had brought with him from Ered Luin entered first. Tyrth and Lofi, Balin and Dwalin, with Fíli a step behind and Kíli walking at his mother’s elbow, ready to offer support should it be needed. They arrayed themselves down the table at his right hand, Dís immediately beside him, then his nephews and the rest of his humble court in no set order. These were his closest advisors, his dearest friends, and his family. By rights the rest of the Company should have been present as well, but there would be time to honour them as they deserved later. For now, he was bound to abide by traditions that were nearly as old as the Line of Durin itself.

Dain came next, Svala in lockstep at his side, and, in recognition of the fact it was his domain Thorin sought to rule, the Lord of the Iron Hills claimed the place opposite Thorin’s own. With Áfast and Valin both departed, Dain’s Council was formed of only two, Drúin and Thelór, neither of whom Thorin knew well. Young Rin had not yet been granted leave to join his father’s advisors, and would not for some years yet if the rumours Thorin had heard of his ready temper were true.

That trait came more from his mother’s family than Dain’s, though Svala herself did not bear the typical Firebeard temperament. Rin’s uncle was another matter, Thorin was promptly reminded, as Steinn Stormsword pounded into the room on Dain’s heels. The Lord of the Firebeards was not as tall as either of his fellows, but his shoulders were broad, his steps heavy, and his stance proud as he moved to take his rightful place at the table, perpendicular to Dain and Thorin both.

It was a position the Firebeard clan had long held, beneath Steinn’s guidance and that of his forebears. They skillfully straddled the line between paying their due respect to the Line of Durin and staking their own claim, avoiding the friction that could easily have formed between the two ruling families when Gror, the founder of Dain’s house, had chosen to make a home for his followers in the Iron Hills long after the majority of the Firebeards had settled there.

Animosity had never found fertile ground in that alliance, however, as proven by the union between Svala and Dain, and Thorin chose to take comfort in that fact now. If Steinn opposed his ascension, it would not be out of any desire to seize that power for himself. That was the very reason Dain had requested his brother-by-wed be present. If there was any one of the Seven who might be safer to approach than the others, Steinn was certainly that one, second only to Dain himself.

When all those who had been summoned were inside, the doors to the Council Chamber were pulled shut with a heavy ‘thud’. Balin rose, acting under his authority as Thorin’s chief advisor to bring the gathering to order, though it was hardly needed. Nevertheless, Thorin let his oldest friend speak the formal words, welcoming the brief respite they offered before all eyes inevitably turned to him.

He had endured such scrutiny many a time in the past, both in Ered Luin and before the entirety of the assembled Seven, yet never had he felt so bare. So entirely unprepared for the reaction his words might invoke.

No, that was not entirely true. The same dread that filled him now had burdened him also when he confessed his failures to his council in Ered Luin. He had been so certain they would turn on him then, a belief they had collectively proven void in short order. Would the same happen here, or should he be bracing himself for a long battle?

There was, he knew, only one way to be certain.

“There are no easy words to explain the circumstances that have brought us here today,” he began where Balin had left off. “No tradition or past event we may look to to guide us. The battles we have fought in recent months have not been easy, or straightforward, and they remain a part of a larger war that began when Smaug claimed Erebor as his own. That war has ended now, and so this assembly does not gather only to plan the coronation of a king, but to begin to address the harm that all conflicts must inevitably cause.”

“Conflicts?” Steinn spoke before the silence could fully settle. “You dance around the truth with skill befitting of the elves, Thorin. If we are to speak of harm done, let us at least be honest about it.”

Several of those on Thorin’s side of the table bristled, Dís among them, whilst Dain’s court remained steadily impassive. For his part, Thorin was actually _relieved_ that Steinn had chosen to challenge him so openly. Too many had held their tongues in the past; it was a comfort to know not all would do so now.

“You ask for honesty, Steinn?” he spoke softly before anyone else could. “A confession, perhaps?”

Steinn met his stare with a challenging look of his own. “Are you _denying_ your guilt?”

Dís, a spark of her usual temper shining through, slammed a hand down on the table in objection. “This is not a trial!”

“Well, it should be.” Steinn did not back down. If anything, Dís’ outrage only spurned his determination. His gaze did not waver from Thorin for more than a moment. “You are asking us to raise you to a position of power where your mistakes will decide the fates of many. It does not matter if the throne is your blood-right, or how many of your kinsmen are ready to stand behind you in this. If you cannot assure me that handing you the crown will not result in the same bloodshed that stained Thror’s rule then I have no intention of calling you my king.”

It was strange, in a way, to hear his own nightmares cast back in his face, and yet he still found himself more reassured than offended by Steinn’s words. Like Dain, the Lord of the Firebeards put his people before all else, including the opinion of one directly descended from Durin the Deathless, and that was a trait Thorin could easily respect.

“If you are asking me for certainty,” he replied slowly, wishing to convey his sincere regard for Steinn’s concerns. “Then I fear I cannot oblige. I cannot speak for the actions I may take in a year’s time, or in ten. All I have to offer you are my intentions in this moment.”

Steinn regarded him in tense silence for a moment, his fingers drumming an erratic beat upon the table’s surface, and it occurred to Thorin that there was more at play here than simply doubt of his ability to cast off the shadow of Thror. Steinn had sat at this table once before, after all, when the debate had surrounded Kíli and Dain and who held the greater right to the succession. The question of his nephew’s soundness of mind had been raised at that meeting as well, but by Valin, not Steinn. Whilst Steinn had more reason to doubt Thorin than he’d ever had to doubt Kíli, it was somewhat telling that he had kept his peace then.

A true Firebeard did not hold his tongue when it mattered.

So why was he asking for reassurances now, when he must know full well anything Thorin could say would mean nothing? All the promises in the world would not stop him from succumbing again if that was to be his fate, and Steinn had to know that. What was he really seeking?

Questioningly, he let his gaze drift to Dain, who would better know his fellow lord’s mind. Dain did not hesitate to respond, as steady and bold as he had always been.

“We are bound by our oaths, Thorin,” he stated plainly. “But what words could ever be strong enough to bind a King?”

What words indeed? None. There were none he could speak that would tie him so strongly to his duties that the gold sickness would never find him again. He knew it well, and so did they, no matter what Dain might have claimed to the contrary. His cousin swore he did not want the throne, but it was equally clear he did not mean to make Thorin’s ascension an easy one either.

“What do you ask of me?" he said at last, certain that they had come with an intent forefront in their minds. “You have said already that any words I can offer you would be empty, and my actions thus far speak for themselves. The right to Erebor’s throne is mine, you cannot dispute that, but it is clear a seat of power alone will not win your loyalty.”

Dain’s eyes drifted, of all places, to Kíli, and Thorin was suddenly gripped by the notion this had been planned. Perhaps not Steinn’s part in it, not even Dain could claim to have the power to predict a Firebeard, but as to the rest? His suspicions were only confirmed when Lofi cleared his throat, waiting for Thorin’s nod of assent before rising to his feet.

“It seems to me,” the elderly scribe began thoughtfully. “That we are all of us too caught up in the tragedies of the past, so much so that we have neglected to learn anything from the mistakes that led to those tragedies in the first place. It is not fair to treat Thorin as if he were Thror. The pain Erebor’s last King caused was as much his burden to bear as any other. Were it not for Thorin, the cost of Thror’s madness would have been much steeper. War may have come to Erebor’s doorstep in the wake of Smaug’s death, but that, too, was not of Thorin’s doing. We may never know if it would truly have come to blows had other forces not intervened, because the facts of what happened are these; Foes came to Erebor unforeseen, and were repelled only because armies were already gathered on the field of battle to meet them. Call that what you will - luck, fate, the unseen hand of a wizard – it _is_ the indisputable truth, just as it is true that Thorin stood with his kinsmen in those dark hours, and did not abandon them even when all hope seemed lost.”

Lofi paused for breath, but did not withdraw, his piercing gaze flitting to each member of the table, daring them to interrupt before he continued. “That he did so then does not erase the mistakes that preceded the joining of battle, but these events must also be put into perspective. It was King Thranduil of Mirkwood and Bard of Laketown who brought an army to the gates, ready to claim the mountain’s wealth, from beneath the Company’s scorched corpses if need be. They were surprised to find the living, but that did not sway them from their purpose. When they could have demanded shelter from the encroaching winter within a warm and sheltered keep did they? No, instead they chose to ask for gold that could neither sate their hunger nor warm their chilled bones. A ludicrous request, truly, when they stood stranded and homeless, too far from any land that might trade what they needed for the wealth they desired. Thorin reacted as any King would when besieged; he refused them and sent for aid. A request, let us remember, that Dain willingly answered.”

“That may all be true.” There was something in Steinn’s voice that betrayed what was coming. Or perhaps Thorin was simply too acutely aware of the deed Lofi had so carefully skipped over. “Yet, as you hasten to excuse his lesser misdeeds you make no mention of the greatest atrocity he committed. How can _any_ of us trust a King who would turn his blade upon his own kin in a fit of rage?”

Not even Lofi, it seemed, had an answer for that. The scribe pursed his lips in pensive silence, but he did not speak, lowering his gaze to the table between them as if it might hold a fit answer for such a question. Dís, too, was stricken to silence, though she was all but trembling with rage. Neither Dain nor Svala would speak on this matter, it was not for them to refute, for they had not been present when those terrible events unfolded. Thorin nearly looked to the rest of his council, to Balin, whose words had smoothed over many an anxious moment in the past, but he couldn’t. Not for this. Steinn’s accusation was truth, and he had nothing with which to defend himself.

“Treachery is punishable by death.” He wasn’t expecting Kíli to speak, and spun to stare at his youngest sister-son in unveiled surprise. Clearly discomfited by the sudden, united scrutiny, the archer nonetheless continued, “And I admitted to it.”

“You cannot…” Steinn started, outraged, then stopped himself as if his own words were betraying his intent.

“Kíli is right.” It was the first time Fíli had made his presence felt in any official capacity since their return to Erebor, and Thorin was not surprised it was in defense of his brother, even as his mind still grappled with the words Kíli had uttered a moment before. “Taking the Arkenstone from Erebor and handing it over to our enemies _was_ treason. It is the King’s Jewel; none but the King may bestow it on another.”

“Surely you are not _defending_ Thorin’s actions in this matter?” Steinn said, his face a picture of horror, any residual anger buried beneath disbelief.

“No, I am not.” Fíli shook his head, quiet steel in his gaze and voice. “But the laws of our clan _do_. Thror named the Arkenstone the King’s Jewel, a divine symbol of his right to rule. Giving it over to King Thranduil, our enemy, was not just treachery, but nearly sacrilege as well.”

“For such a crime,” Lofi interjected. “Banishment could easily be considered a light sentence.”

Thorin was not the only one stricken speechless by that soft pronouncement. The sudden hush was absolute, hanging over the entire gathering in a pall of shock and dismay. Because Fíli was _right_. Whilst every part of Thorin screamed its dismay at what he had done, by the laws of Durin’s Folk the crime committed on Erebor’s walls that day had not been his.

“That is…” Steinn was the first to recover, struggling to find the words to express his thoughts. “That is… Just because something is _right_ in the eyes of the law does not mean it is vindicable!”

“No,” Lofi agreed with all the smug satisfaction of someone whose point has been made with very little effort on his part. “It does not. And, yet, if we were to blindly follow the edicts of Kings long passed that is exactly what we would be asked to believe. Fortunately, we _know_ better, and so it is incumbent upon us to act in a manner befitting of the present, not the past. Thorin is _not_ Thror. The blade may have been raised, but it did not fall. Prince Kíli sits amongst us today. Erebor is _ours_. You must make your own decision, Steinn Stormsword, as to who you are willing to trust. No argument made by any of us here today can make that choice for you.”

“But the choice has already been made, has it not?” And there, beneath the accusations and the doubt and the bridled fury, was the true reason for Steinn’s steadfast opposition. “You hold the Arkenstone,” he said, speaking directly to Thorin. “The oath has already been made. I will not have it said that the Firebeards do not stand by their word. We are not _elves_ to so readily abandon our promises.”

Thorin hesitated, uncertain how to respond to what was both a declaration of loyalty and a heavily resentful reminder that it had not been willingly given. His thoughts were still spinning from the sickening realisation that his act of violence against his own nephew was defensible on _any_ grounds, and thus he might have been excused for not at first realising what it was Kíli removed from the folds of his coat to lay upon the table.

“The Arkenstone is not in Thorin’s keeping,” he uttered softly, tugging back the coverings of the glittering gemstone to let its radiance shine forth. “It is in mine.” As always, the sight of the jewel’s shimmering surface transfixed all those present, so that they did not realise until too late that it was the Arkenstone’s bearer to whom they should have been paying the most heed. “And I revoke every oath sworn upon its name.”

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

If Kíli had not already been terrified out of his wits by the very idea of speaking before so many assembled lords and councillors, then the absolute silence his words sowed in their wake would surely have brought him to that point. Lofi had insisted this was the best way, and Dain had agreed when the scribe had dragged him into their plans, but he still wished now that they had forewarned more than just Fíli of what was going to unfold.

His hands were trembling as he drew them away from the Arkenstone’s coverings, even as he managed to make his voice sound steady. As if he knew what Thorin’s reaction would be. As if he didn’t fear that in trying to prove Thorin worthy of Erebor’s throne he would unwittingly unleash that which had nearly destroyed them all once before. Sitting beside him, Fíli reached over to touch his arm in silent reassurance, and Kíli reminded himself to breathe.

“You are a Prince of the Blood, Prince Kíli.” Surprisingly, it was Thelór, the younger of Dain’s two councillors, who recovered first. “But that does not grant you the right to unbind the oaths of old. That belongs solely to the King.”

As if drawn by an irrepressible force, all heads inevitably turned in Thorin’s direction, including Kíli’s own. His uncle was still standing alongside the seat he had never taken, shock lingering yet on his features, though he seemed to recover himself even as Kíli tentatively dared to meet his gaze.

“No,” he said, the word little more than a whisper, and then he shook his head and spoke more firmly. “ _No_ , I willingly gave the Arkenstone into Kíli’s keeping. He is its rightful bearer until such a time as I find another worthy of that honour.”

“But the oaths, Thorin,” Balin protested in consternation. “They are sworn to the King, not–”

“They were sworn,” Thorin said slowly, deliberately, “to _Thror_.”

And just like that, the terror abated. It was gone so swiftly Kíli had to consciously hold himself upright, his limbs gripped by a sudden weakness that shuddered through him and made Fíli’s grasp on his arm tighten. Not that he truly noticed, overwhelmed by the simple fact that Thorin had understood. In that moment when their eyes met across the table, his uncle had realised what it was he was trying to do, and he had _approved_. It was there to see in the barely-there smile Thorin offered him, along with a brief nod, before the King Beneath the Mountain directed his attention back to the rest of those present.

“I will not shy away from the shadow my grandfather cast upon his line, Steinn, nor will I deny that I played my part in giving others leave to doubt. The oaths of the Seven were sworn to Thror, and, whilst little harm came to those who kept their distance, he betrayed every one of those oaths in due course. The old trust has been broken, I accept this, and I do not ask for more than you are willing to give. Those who followed me this far were offered the chance to stay or go as they chose, and I will grant you nothing less than the same.”

Steinn absorbed Thorin’s words slowly, his eyes darting between the speaker, the Arkenstone, and Kíli with something like dazed curiosity. “You would forfeit your birthright so easily? On your nephew’s say-so?”

“He is my nephew,” Thorin said, and there was no mistaking the fondness in his words. “First and foremost. But he is also an heir to the throne, a Prince of Durin’s Line, and a member of my council.” Turning back to Steinn, he offered the royal approximate of a shrug. “His advice is worth far more to me than the jewel he carries.”

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

“I’m starting to think it’s a bad idea to leave you to your own devices.” Smiling, to soften any sting the words might otherwise have held, Fíli joined his brother on the fringes of the dispersing Council. Conversations were still taking place between the individual members, but the gathering was, for all intents and purposes, over and done with for the day. For the _day_. They would meet again on the morrow, once everyone had had a chance to clear their heads and ponder all that had been discussed, so he wasn’t about to waste a free moment now. “I’m glad I was forewarned. Most of the others in there looked like they’d been struck by lightning.”

“It was mostly Lofi’s idea.” Kíli still looked more shaken than amused. The Arkenstone was safely tucked back into its hiding place now, but the weight of its presence had yet to dissipate. “I thought I was going to choke on my words.”

“But you didn’t.” Reaching out, he gave Kíli’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “As Balin would say, you ‘acquitted yourself admirably’.”

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Kíli huffed, something like relief in his voice even as he scowled. “Just remember, _you’ll_ be making all the speeches at the coronation.”

“I won’t need to,” Fíli said cheerfully. “There’ll be plenty of others on hand to do just that. You and I, we’ll be there to look the part of the gallant princes, nothing more.”

“That would be a gross misuse of you both.” Dís approached them with steps that were somehow steadier than those she had taken walking into the room, sliding an arm about each of her sons, a devilish glint in her eyes. “Hellions. Your uncle does not even wear the crown yet and already you plot behind his back.”

“For his own good, ma,” Fíli protested mildly, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips. “Just as you taught us.”

“I taught you no such thing. Durin only knows where you picked up such a habit.”

Fíli let the grin form then, feeling, for the first time since they had reclaimed Erebor, decidedly… _hopeful_. It was strange. Nothing had really changed. It was still going to be an uphill battle, even with Steinn’s word that he would at least _consider_ a new alliance, though not before Thorin had been crowned as Erebor’s King and ruled for long enough to prove that his admirable intentions would not evaporate the moment he had the position he wanted. How long that might take the Firebeard lord had not stipulated, but Dain had seemed to think even that grudging allowance was a good sign, and had already pledged his own support. That was only two of the six houses, and one of those two was tentative at best, yet that did not diminish his sudden optimism about the whole thing.

Perhaps he was only feeling this buoyant because of Kíli’s unexpected interference. His brother had never been one for tradition, and others tended to doubt his abilities when it came to fulfilling their princely duties, but Fíli never had. For all his dark moods and his penchant for recklessness, his younger brother had always pulled through whenever Fíli had needed him, whether that need was a distraction, a presence too stubborn to believe he was as calm as he pretended, or a bow and arrow to his sword and shield. Kíli might struggle with the proper decorum of a royal, and let his heart rule his head more than was wise, but Fíli would never doubt that that quick and agile mind would find a way when every last shred of common sense said there was no way to find.

The very fact he and Thorin were standing in Erebor now, alive and well, was proof of that, if any was needed. Fíli did not think it was. Not anymore. Whether Kíli realised it or not, he had just proven himself worthy of the badge Thorin had pinned to his collar all those months ago in Rivendell, and Fíli could not have been more proud.

“There you are.” Having at last freed himself from the mass of councillors, Thorin joined the rest of his family on the outskirts of the room, tension bleeding out of his shoulders even as he did so. His gaze met Dís’ only briefly in silent conversation, and then he turned his full attention onto his nephews. “You handled yourselves well in there.”

“You are not upset?” Kíli asked nervously, though the very fact he was willing to ask was proof he was fairly certain Thorin had not been angered by his actions. “I would have told you, but–”

“Lofi has explained his reasons and yours.” Thorin held up a hand to still the flow of words. “And, even if he had not, I can well understand why my not knowing would be important. Steinn was testing my answers, but I think you devised a better trial than he ever could have. I am _grateful_ , Kíli. Grateful that you had faith enough in me to take that risk. After what transpired here, what others know transpired, such a show of trust from you is…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and without words to give voice to his thoughts he simply reached out to squeeze his youngest nephew’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Kíli merely nodded, a slightly unsteady smile the only response he was ready to offer, and Fíli decided it was his turn to speak.

“I suppose this means the Arkenstone won’t be part of the coronation after all. Balin will be disappointed. He already had plans for repairing the throne so it could be returned to its rightful place.”

“Actually,” Kíli looked anxious again, though it was to Dís, not Thorin that his gaze darted this time. “I had a thought about that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun trivia fact for those who are interested, because even the tiniest OC I slam in these things get a bit of backstory: The unique sword that gave Steinn his second name is the same blade Svala was forging when she lost her eye and earned her own moniker. It essentially christened them both.


	59. The Call of Home

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT VI**

**-The King Beneath the Mountain-**

**Chapter 59**

**_The Call of Home  
_**

Fíli had known before even setting foot outside of Ered Luin that the quest to reclaim Erebor would change his life forever. Without dwelling overmuch on the whispered doubts of those who had been convinced such a venture could end in nothing but disaster, he had sensed even then that the success of Thorin’s mission would inevitably rewrite the role he had spent the entirety of his youth learning. Thorin spoke of his old home too often, comparing Ered Luin always to its greater rival, for Fíli to believe that being the prince and heir of one would be the same as fulfilling those same duties for the other.

Such concerns had seemed distant things then, with the long road forward laid out before them and a dragon waiting at the end of it. What did it matter if he was ready to be Erebor’s firstborn if the mountain was yet to be won? Better to focus on the journey first, and worry about the destination once it was reached. Or so he had thought. It seemed almost folly now, to have not considered what he would do if they succeeded. Kíli claimed they could not afford to let their new roles change them, but they were already changed, and it did not take the Royal Council squabbling for days over things that would have been resolved within hours in Ered Luin for Fíli to realise that.

Despite the fact they had resolved not to officially involve the Seven in Thorin’s ascension, it quickly became apparent to all those concerned that there were a number of fairly important people who _did_ need to be included, out of plain good manners if nothing else. Equally obvious soon after was the polarising difference in opinion as to who, exactly, counted as an ‘important person’. Everyone seemed to have their own thoughts on the matter, and very few of them were the same.

Bard was obviously among those who must be present, and the King of Dale’s inclusion was perhaps the only one that did not cause much strife amongst vying sentiments. The relationship between Dale and Erebor was critical to the survival of both, and mending bridges in the wake of Valin’s treachery was better started sooner rather than later. Dain and Svala had already done their utmost to make amends for the unfair accusations that had been leveled against the City of Men, and it was a simple step from there to include Dale in plans for Erebor’s future.

The subject of their former alliance with Mirkwood was another kettle of fish entirely, and quickly turned the discussion less than civil when Thorin absolutely refused to send any sort of message to Thranduil, either to request or deny his presence. Tyrth, of course, fully backed his lord’s stance when it came to the overbearing elf king, whilst Dain and several others sought to prevent a renewing of the old feud. Thorin’s adamance on the issue quickly led to a heated argument, and the standoff might have continued indefinitely had it not been for Kíli’s tentative reminder that Legolas had stood in support of Thorin’s cause outside Erebor’s gate, and that, were it not for Tuilinn, their victory would have been a cold and empty thing.

Still unwilling to have any dealings with the one who had so callously abandoned Erebor’s people to their fate, Thorin had nonetheless agreed to Kíli personally inviting Legolas… in recognition of the aid the elf prince had provided only, not as an envoy for his kingdom or his father. It was not the most diplomatic way to approach the matter, but, given his own treatment at the hands of Thranduil and his followers, Fíli wasn’t about to protest.

Though it was unlikely he would attend, word was also sent to Beorn, along with Thorin’s belated thanks for the part the skinchanger had played in the rescue of he and his eldest nephew. The courier charged with delivering that missive was to then ride on to Rivendell, with an invitation for the Lord of Imladris and another to be passed on to the Dúnedain, in solemn recognition of the shelter both had offered without thought of any reward. Tyrth, embittered still that any emissary of Mirkwood would receive an invitation, took a moment to question whether they really needed _more_ elves meddling in what was strictly a dwarven matter, at which point Fíli felt compelled to intervene with a short, biting reminder that Elrond was _half_ elven and the reason the entirety of the royal family was still alive.

To Jorunn and those who had remained in Ered Luin the news was sent via raven, a method that was also employed to inform the remainder of the Seven houses of Thorin’s return and imminent enthronement. There was some debate as to whether the latter was even necessary, but Steinn, speaking as a representative for his fellow houses, pointed out that they had a right to be informed of the goings on in Erebor even if their oath of loyalty was not yet required.

It did not end there, either. Almost as much time was spent deciding on the exact wording for each missive as was spent deciding to whom they were to be sent, and Fíli could not help but be impressed by the patience with which Balin composed the dictated words again and again until all were satisfied. It was tedious work, and if his forbearance was feeling stretched thin he could only imagine how Thorin and Kíli must be feeling.

Though, perhaps it was not _only_ the task at hand that was causing his discomfort. Fíli was tired, and not necessarily in a way that would be helped by escaping the duties imposed upon him. He had hoped the weariness would pass once things in Erebor had settled a little more, but the constant unease that caused it was still his ever-present, exhausting companion. There were too many memories tied to this place, so much so that sometimes he could literally _feel_ the weight of the mountain pressing down on his shoulders.

Thorin had not noticed his heir’s disconcertion yet, kept busy by all the trivial and simultaneously important things that needed to be seen to, but Kíli had. No doubt his little brother still remembered the fears he had shared during their stay in Nordinbad, and thought to use himself as a substitute for the glittering lake that had eased those fears then. It did help, just as Fíli’s newfound responsibilities did. Sometimes it just wasn’t enough, and a part of him worried it never would be.

He would not abandon Thorin to fight this battle alone, or leave Kíli to shoulder a burden that rightfully belonged to them both. Not willingly, at least, but he doubted his own strength. Doubted if his courage would hold when put to the test. When his mind turned on itself and shadows became monsters and Erebor a tomb waiting to claim them all.

A booted toe tapped against his ankle at the same time as Kíli leaned in close enough to speak in a whisper none would overhear. “Fi?”

“It’s nothing.” A lie. Did it count when Kíli already knew that? “I’m just tired.”

_Tired_. Sometimes it felt like he was speaking in riddles without even meaning to. The words he planned to say never quite being what he actually said. Kíli was quickly learning how to read between the lines regardless, often with more success than Fíli could claim to have himself.

“We have been here a long time.” The archer grimaced, flexing his bad hand as though the limb was stiff. “Do you want to step out for a moment?”

He wanted to say no. He should have been able to say no, to see this through; it was not as though it was difficult. But the idea was in his head now, and he found himself mutely nodding, listening in growing frustration as Kíli made their excuses – _always excuses_ – to Thorin and earned his permission to leave the table. Thankfully, most of the others present were too engrossed in their argument over how long it would take to repair the flood damage in the guest quarters to pay much heed to the brothers’ departure, even with Fíli’s uneven gait ensuring it was not as fast as he would have preferred.

The Council Chamber was too far away from the Hidden Door to make a retreat to his favoured refuge possible, so Fíli set a path for the front gates instead, refusing to let the stairs deter him as he clambered his way up to the rampart above the wide egress. The guards on duty nodded to him as he passed – Dain’s men still – but they did not try to detain him with speech, and he reached the parapet unhindered. Kíli silently came to stand behind him as he drew in a steady, bracing breath of the crisp, mountain air, forcing himself to let it out slowly as he tried to quell the irrational panic threatening to take a hold in his chest.

He repeated the motion a few times more before the pressure slowly started to ease, the sun’s warmth against his face and the gentle touch of a mild breeze reminding him that this was not the deep shadows of Gundabad, or the violent, churning depths of a torrent threatening to sweep him away. He had triumphed over both, and still… _still_ …

“What’s Bilbo up to, I wonder?” Kíli observed absently, gesturing to where the hobbit could be seen, perched on a protruding boulder downstream of Erebor’s front gate. Fíli squinted obligingly, but the Company’s burglar was too far away for him to venture a guess at what had drawn the Halfling out of the mountain.

“Maybe he’s grown tired of being surrounded by dwarves,” he suggested, only half jesting. Bilbo had been suffering the pleasure of their company for a very long time now; nobody would begrudge him a little solitude.

“You say that like we are not good company.”

“Are we?”

Kíli snorted. “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”

Fíli smiled a little despite himself, but his earlier somberness returned soon enough, dampening the mood Kíli had been trying to brighten.

“What am I doing, Kíli?” The archer turned, a questioning look mingling with the worry in his eyes, and Fíli shook his head, frustrated at how difficult it was to give voice to his thoughts. “It’s not getting better. How long do I go on pretending that it is?”

“You just need time,” Kíli protested, repeating old platitudes.

“We don’t _have_ time,” he cut the other off, not unkindly. “This isn’t going to end with Thorin’s coronation. That will only be the beginning, and, for the first few years at least, there’s going to be all sorts of challenges and upheaval. I don’t know if I can… a _lot_ has happened, Kíli.”

His brother was quiet for a moment, his gaze never drifting from Fíli’s own. “But what will you do?” he asked at length. “If you don’t stay here?”

Fíli shrugged, the gesture far more casual than he truly felt. “Go back to Ered Luin? I’m sure Jorunn wouldn’t mind the help, and there will be plenty of work to do there making the homestead safe with fewer to defend it.”

“Ma thinks more will come,” Kíli reminded him quietly. “When everything has settled down. Ered Luin may not have a homestead for much longer.”

“That won’t be for years yet.” Fíli shook his head. “Plenty of time for me to… come to terms with things.”

“Do you really think it will help?” Kíli’s face held doubts that did not quite make it to his voice. “Nordinbad is no Erebor, and still…”

Fíli turned away, his lips pressed tightly together. Kíli was right, of course. Leaving Erebor, fleeing to the familiarity of Ered Luin, would not change what had already happened. It would not be as fresh, perhaps, as ever present and undeniable, but would that make the horrors fade more swiftly, or simply act as a temporary bandage over a festering wound? He could not answer that question with any certainty. He had lost his grasp on _certainty_ long ago, and sometimes it felt like he would never get it back again. Like he was lost in the dark still, pressed in on all sides and fleeing from gnashing teeth that snapped always at his heels.

“If you do decide to go,” Kíli spoke into the silence, and through his spiralling thoughts. “Then I will be going with you.”

“You can’t,” he said reflexively. “Thorin will need you.”

“Ma will be here,” Kíli countered, a familiar stubbornness ringing his words. “And you will need me more. I’m not just going to let you disappear, Fíli. Not again.”

Those last words were said with a shudder, and Fíli reached out on instinct to grip his brother by the arm, knowing the nightmare those few days after the battle had been for Kíli. It amazed him how easily the archer seemed to have bounced back from that torment, though a part of him registered that it was probably unfair to call any part of that journey ‘easy’. Kíli had fought his way back from the abyss of despair to rescue his uncle and brother, and had then swallowed his fears to return to Erebor and face the consequences of his hasty departure.

Confronted with such courage, could Fíli do any less? His heart said no, but his head remained a pit of uncomfortably swirling thoughts that refused to settle. Right now he wasn’t sure what he was even thinking, much less planning to do. Grasping for stability, for solid ground from which to take the plunge, he let those turbulent thoughts escape him to focus on what he knew to be true.

He knew Thorin was capable of ruling, of bringing the Seven back together, and stabilising a realm that had teetered for too many decades. He knew Kíli was more than ready to be a Prince of Erebor, supporting Thorin even when that meant disagreeing with him. He knew Erebor could be the salvation Thorin had always hoped it would be, providing a home for the displaced, and a bulwark for the beleaguered East.

He did not know if he believed in his own part in all of that. But he did believe that he would not have to face it alone, and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now. Not to beat the shadows back entirely, but to make them bearable; a foe that could be conquered and overcome, even if it would forever be a long and wearisome fight.

“I don’t plan to disappear, Ki,” he uttered softly. “I just…”

Words failed him again, unspoken confessions scattering before they ever made it to his tongue. Was there any point in speaking such empty wishes aloud? He had done so before, they both had, recognising them for what they were even as they indulged the idle fancies of their minds. But he was Prince of _Erebor_ now, and idle fancy had no place in this new world. He could not whisper ‘ _I just want to go home_ ’ like it did not matter anymore. It all mattered now, another crushing weight added to the pile with no thought for the shoulders bending beneath.

He was just so tired.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Kíli told him solemnly. “You should stop.”

“Stop _thinking_?”

“Yes.” There was no trace of humour in his brother’s eyes such as he might have expected. “Stop thinking, Fíli. Just let things be for a moment. Stop worrying about Erebor and Thorin and ma and whether or not you’re meeting expectations as Thorin’s heir. The only thing you need to worry about right now is yourself. Do the selfish thing for once. Nobody is going to judge you for it.”

For a moment he simply stared, then a frown worked its way across his visage. “I don’t think that is strictly true.”

“Fine.” Kíli waved a hand dismissively. “Nobody we care about is going to judge you for it. Who cares about the rest?”

“ _Kíli_.”

“No. They have Thorin, and me, and ma and Dain and Svala. They don’t need you right now.”

That… was almost insulting. “So now I’m unnecessary?”

“Don’t be a nyaff, Fíli.”

The laugh that escaped his lips surprised them both. “You have been spending too much time with Rin, little brother.”

“And you have been spending too little,” Kíli countered without pause. “Take some time, Fíli, let Rin show you an Erebor we can be proud of. I promise no calamity will occur if you step away for a few hours.”

Fíli mulled that over for a moment, considering, trying to stamp down the instinctive guilt he felt for actually wanting to take Kíli up on that offer more than he wanted to return to the council. Thorin needed him, and yet… “An Erebor we can be proud of?”

It came out softer than he had meant it to, a tentative question, but Kíli was already nodding. “Rin was here before Valin started ruining everything,” he reminded. “Seeing things through his perspective, without the taint of other memories… Even after everything that happened, he still talks about Erebor like we used to, Fíli. I… it helps. Sometimes, this even starts to feel like home.”

“It is home now,” Fíli said, as much a reminder to himself as to his brother. Oh, he could dream of fleeing back to Ered Luin all he wanted, but he knew it would not be the same as his memories painted it. Kíli had been right when he had said the changes were in them, not the land that had birthed them, and the battles he was fighting now would follow him wherever he went. He still did not know if he had the strength to win those battles, but he had the strength to try.

Kíli had made sure of that.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

Planning a coronation took time, and a great deal of it, something Bilbo was coming to realise with the slow dawning horror of someone who really has very little to do. As Erebor abruptly shifted from disquieting watchfulness to a ceaseless flurry of endless activity, the Company’s burglar was, for the first time since the quest’s beginning, left entirely to his own devices. Once upon a time he would have welcomed such an occurrence. Back when an unexpected army of dwarves had first invaded his humble home in the Shire, he had been all but ready to beg for it. Now, though? Now the solitude plagued him.

So much had changed since his journey’s beginning. He’d proven himself far more a Took than the Baggins he had once professed to be; travelling the length of Middle Earth and back again, fighting in battles, speaking with a _dragon_ , mounting an impossible rescue from an orc infested keep... It was all rather a lot to take in, and yet now that he finally had a moment or two to just sit down and think he found himself quite unable to do so. Inactivity no longer suited him as it once had. Whilst he still possessed a lingering ache in his chest for that familiar armchair and his shelves of books, he could not settle for being idle as his friends toiled around him.

He had scarcely seen Thorin or his nephews since they reclaimed the mountain. Thorin had been understandably preoccupied with the future of his kingdom, and Fíli had simultaneously seemed to want nothing more than to be away from Erebor. Kíli had been flitting back and forth between the two of them when his time was not claimed by Dain or one of the numerous others eager to hear the exploits that had brought their King home again, and that had all been before the arrangements for Thorin’s crowning had even begun. Bilbo had briefly found himself a role in keeping a recovering Dís company whilst her sons were elsewhere, but she had been just as hard to pin down since making her escape from the healers’ clutches, fully enmeshed in whatever preparations were required for a King’s coronation.

Tuilinn had taken her leave of Erebor shortly after Dís regained her strength, to the relief of many an uncomfortable dwarf, and to Bilbo’s great disappointment. The elf maid had been in the midst of teaching him the sign language that she used in the place of her silenced voice, a project he doubted he would ever get the chance to finish now. Gandalf, too, had been strangely absent ever since the confrontation at the gates, vanished back to Dale or Mirkwood with Bard and Legolas, or off on another of his mysterious, wizardly errands. Bofur kept him company when he could, as did a few of the others, but Thorin wanted them all involved in the impending inauguration, and the preparations for that seemed to be claiming more time than anyone had to spare.

Not wanting to get in the way, Bilbo had eventually borrowed some paper and ink and excused himself from the mountain keep, following the River Running a short way south of the front gates until he had a clear vantage point of Dale and the banners rippling in the breeze above its walls. Finding himself a comfortable seat on one of the large, round boulders at the river’s edge he then set about sketching a likeness of the City of Men, something to take home with him when his adventure inevitably came to its end.

It would not be far off now, he thought. The call of home was already taking a hold in his many idle moments, but he was determined to see Thorin take his rightful place first. A fitting end to the tale he would write when he was back in Bag End, nestled up warm next to a glowing fire, enjoying a nice cup of tea and a small bite to eat.

“You look a hundred miles away, Master Baggins.”

Startled, he raised his head to find Gorin standing a few strides off at the head of a small company of dwarves, packed and ready for travel. Those who had come with them from Nordinbad, he realised, even as he rose.

“I was,” he confessed, in answer to Gorin’s observation. “And you look like you mean to be as well.”

“I would like to stay.” Gorin nodded. “To see this thing through to the end, but my father’s wishes on this matter were clear. We have honoured our debt to Thorin, now we must look once more to the needs of Nordinbad, and the secrecy that has kept us safe through these dark years.”

“You don’t think it is safe now?” Bilbo dared to ask, out of curiosity more than anything else. “I mean, Smaug is gone, and with Thorin as King…”

Gorin smiled slightly, a gesture that was almost weary. “I fear the dangers that my father seeks to avoid will never be gone, Master Baggins. Nordinbad is not meant to be a part of this world of kings and treasure and power. Here, there are those who would call us traitors and cowards for what we did at Azanulbizar. Who would mock the life we have chosen and dismiss what we see fit to call riches. We have lived apart for all this time, I do not think we remember how to do otherwise.”

“I know what you mean,” Bilbo said, feeling a sudden kinship for these dwarves and their desire to simply be left in peace. It was a way of thinking that was quite universal in the Shire, even if he no longer shared in it himself. “Does Thorin know you are leaving?”

“We have spoken our farewells to our King,” Gorin confirmed, then, with a questioning look, he added, “But what of you, Master Hobbit? Do you seek further great deeds to raise forever the name of Baggins, or is it the call of home that beckons the strongest now?”

“I do not know if I ever _sought_ great deeds,” Bilbo demurred with a rueful shake of his head. “In truth, they seemed rather determined to seek me out, no matter my wishes at the time.”

“Is that not the way of all great adventures?” Amusement glittered in the dwarf’s dark eyes. “They do not knock upon the door, but crash in through the window, arms aflail and screaming at the top of their lungs.”

“Well, I am not certain even the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was ever that uncouth…”

Gorin laughed, a hearty sound, and offered his hand. “Well said, Master Baggins. You do your people great credit, and I know I speak for my father as well when I say you are one burglar who will be forever welcome in the halls of Nordinbad.”

“I would be honoured.” Bilbo grasped the offered hand and shook it firmly, then tilted his head to the side in sudden suspicion. “So long as there are no dragons involved.”

“Ah,” Gorin said. “But where is the fun in that?”


	60. The Passing of the Torch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone.
> 
> I have been a bit lax on the AN notes of late, mostly because I've been trying to get these chapters written and posted before I go back to work in a couple of days when the holiday break ends. I'm not sure if I'll accomplish that goal, but at least we've made some progress to make up for my unplanned hiatus of sorts. I hope to keep up a more regular schedule even once I am back in the real world, but as my health was actually one of the factors involved in dropping off the grid for a bit, I will make no promises. 
> 
> This chapter is one of those scenes that I've had in mind months and months before actually getting the opportunity to write it. As such, I sincerely hope it comes across as well as it did in my head, but I guess we'll see. There is also a bit of a time-skip between this one and the last, because Erebor was a mess after Valin, and that throne room needed quite a bit of work before it would be in any way fit for a coronation. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who has stuck with this story all this time. The comments you leave are my motivation, and I appreciate every last one of them.
> 
> Read and enjoy,  
> TTC

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT VI**

**-The King Beneath the Mountain-**

**Chapter 60  
**

**_The Passing of the Torch  
_**

It was a solemn assembly that gathered in Erebor’s Hall of Remembrance, packing the circular chamber from wall to wall, a sea of grave faces that could easily have been carved of stone. Never before had a burial drawn such a throng, not even for the greatest of kings, and it was that, more than anything else, that assured Thorin of the rightness of his choice. He had only to look at the expressions of those standing around him to see the raw grief many still carried in their hearts, despite the time that had passed since those wounds were inflicted.

He understood that pain. He shared in it, standing amidst his people as the ceremonial torches that ringed the coliseum were lit and Dís moved to take her place on the rostrum. There were to be no kings here, and Thorin had no plans to speak. This time belonged to the families who had never been given the chance to farewell their loved ones in the proper fashion, and he stood among them as nothing more than another grieving soul.

As the last of the torches flared to life, casting their warm, yellow light against the silver beads that decorated her mourning braids, Dís began to speak. The words were tradition, known to all those present, but one would not have guessed that by the hush that fell, as though every ear in the room was straining to hear what was said.

“We stand upon the threshold, humble servants to the Master of the Forge, and bid him to receive those who now wait upon his mercy into his care.” Dís’ voice was strong and clear, carrying easily in the reverent silence. “May he keep them well until the days of Durin the Last are upon us, when they, and all who were crafted by Mahal’s hand, shall be called upon to forge the world anew.”

As one, those gathered spoke their reply. “Until Mahal’s Hammer falls.”

Dís waited, letting the echoes die away, and then she spoke again, her face cast in strange shadows by the firelight. “It is not the custom of Durin’s Folk to disturb the silence of these hallowed halls. This is a place for the dead to sleep, whilst the stories of their lives are shared around a laden table, with song and cheer and kin held close. But there are times when the customs of old do not serve the needs of the present. Times when the grief is too near, too heavy to be banished by light and laughter. We, of Erebor’s scattered people, have known many such times. We have been burned by dragon fire, bathed in blood, left desolate and homeless and betrayed. We have lost, again and again and again, those that we held most dear, and there are no words, no songs or tales that can ease the pain of that loss.”

She stopped, lowering her eyes for a moment, overcome. The losses she spoke of may have happened years before, a thousand cuts scarred over, but recent events had brought that pain to the surface anew. And not just for Dís either. Erebor itself was a reminder to many of the faces that would never inhabit it again. The people who had been failed by their king. Acknowledgement of the lives cast away in madness was long overdue. Closure for those who had none, the freedom to grieve and move on with their lives.

“We endured those losses.” Finding her courage again, Dís lifted her head, the faint tremor in her voice audible to all. “Oftentimes in silence, for that was all we could do.” Her hand clenched at her side, her eyes burning with more than just reflected firelight. “Not anymore. We are the survivors, and we have come home. Today we give voice to what has always been unspeakable. We remember the fallen in the manner that they deserve, and we do so with the solemn understanding that this can never be allowed to happen again.”

Her words bounded from wall to wall, reverberating in the air like the steady thrum of a drum. Still the silence went unbroken, the solemn hush undisturbed. Standing amidst it, Thorin could feel the power of that wordless sentiment, a thread to bind them all together. It was a rare sort of unity, and he wondered briefly how long it would last outside these walls.

But that was a concern for another time.

“This is the Hall of Remembrance,” Dís spoke again, her words cleaving through still waters without leaving a single ripple in their wake. “So let us remember.”

She turned then, stepping down from the podium as Balin rose to take her place, a thick sheaf of papers in his hands, which he laid almost reverently upon the lectern. They were, Thorin knew, evidence of the time and effort Dís had put in to this task the moment it had been made hers. She had spent the weeks since she had risen from her sickbed speaking with lamenting families and bereft friends, working tirelessly to give names to the oftentimes-faceless dead. It had not been an easy undertaking. Entire families had been wiped out when Smaug claimed Erebor, and where one or two had escaped the dragon fire Moria had too often seen fit to extract the blood toll Erebor had not. Yet Dís had persevered, working with Balin to match every loss to a name from Erebor’s intact records, and then seeking the stories behind each from those who remained to reminisce.

It was those stories they heard now. Tales that would have been spoken during the twilight banquets had the proper traditions been observed. It was strange to hear them here, in a place usually reserved for a vigil of silence, but also strangely fitting. The words Balin wove in the air like the master storyteller he was made sure the names he read aloud were more than just a list of long dead kin. These were people who had lived and breathed and deserved more than the fates that were wrought for them. Erebor’s lost children, Thror’s greatest transgression, and Thorin’s caution.

Those who had been lost to Smaug’s flames may have been beyond Thror’s power to aid, but he had the blood of just as many on his hands. Thorin felt the weight of each of those lives as Balin read out his list of the fallen, painting a skillful picture of the individuals to whom the names had once belonged. For every name that he spoke a dwarf from the crowd stepped forward, sometimes more than one, to light a candle from the largest of the ceremonial torches. They would stand then in vigil at the foot of the podium, waiting for Balin to conclude the account of their kinsman’s deeds in life, before returning to their places, shielded tongues of fire in their hands.

And so the rite continued, name after name, life after life, death after death. If Balin grew weary as the hours passed he gave no sign, his voice never losing its steady cadence, his shoulders never bending beneath the weight of all he uttered. Thorin found himself falling into the rhythm of the memories, losing all notion of time as the past rose to dance before his eyes in the many flickering lights grasped in so many hands. He heard Balin speak Lord Nain’s name as if from a great distance, paying tribute to the father Dain had lost at  
Moria’s gates. He heard him speak of Thorin’s mother and father both; she lost to the fires along with so many of their kin, Thráin to his grief long before his death. He saw Kíli and Fíli step forward to light candles for the grandfather and grandmother they had never met.

And then Balin spoke again.

“Frerin,” he said, finding Thorin’s gaze across the crowd and holding it. “Son of Thráin.”

It was a summons, one he feared for a long moment he would not be able to answer, some unseen force holding him in place. Then Dís was beside him, linking her arm with his as she towed him forward to stand below his advisor’s post and light a taper in his brother’s memory. Balin waited until he had done so, then drew in a heavy breath.

“I fear there is little I can say of our lost prince that is not already familiar to those who knew him in life. Frerin was never ungenerous with his time, regardless of who tried to claim it, always ready to listen, or to kidnap an underfoot bairn or two for an afternoon. He was laughter in the darkness, joy in the night, and his death was no more or less a tragedy than any I have spoken of today. We lay them all now to rest. May their memory become the light that guides us forward in the dark.”

His duty done, Balin offered Dís a respectful incline of his head, passing the reins back to her. Without hesitation, she turned to lead Thorin, and the entire gathering with him, out of the Hall of Remembrance and into the burial vaults below.

Erebor had still been a young nation when Thror became its king, which led to the current, bitter truth that more of Erebor’s people lay buried outside its walls than within them. Dozens of empty rooms lined the Path of the Fallen, stone left blank of the inscriptions that would have been etched there in time’s due course. Dís did not pay those hollow spaces any heed, however, continuing her straight march downwards until she reached the passageway’s end.

There, nestled between the smaller chambers on the left and right that housed those few who had passed before calamity befell their home, was the vault that had been set aside for Erebor’s Kings. The entranceway was simple and adorned only by a Khuzdul inscription above the door, but that was only an illusion. Dain had called upon every craftsman in the Iron Hills, as well as those Thorin had brought with him from Ered Luin, and they had toiled long and hard to complete in a few short months what should rightly have taken a year or more. Hidden beyond that humble threshold was a true wonder of dwarven skill; an enormous room, greater perhaps than the coliseum that was the Hall of Remembrance skillfully transformed from a resting place for kings into a memorial for the tragedies that had shaped Erebor’s past.

There were no stone coffins, standing empty of the bodies meant to inhabit them, crowding the space within. Rather, scores of runes had been carved into the slightly curving walls, running around the length of the room from the entrance, across the shadowed, distant end, and back again. Beneath each carefully etched name was a hollow in the stone, a resting place for the candles they had carried from the Hall of Remembrance. Small, stone pillars, engraved in the same fashion as the walls, circled the floor in a slowly rising spiral, at the very centre of which stood a single, kneeling statue, the features of which Thorin could not yet clearly see.

It was magnificent, and Thorin found himself frozen in place once more, watching with silent emotion as one by the one the candles were placed in the spaces provided, revealing the ever so faint lines of silver that backed every runic inscription. The chamber slowly came to life with each glowing cierge that was placed, until at last Thorin was prompted to move again, following Kíli and Fíli as they slowly wound their way up the spiral to the sculpture’s feet, where two stone pillars bore the names of Thror’s son and daughter-by-wed.

Then, and only then, did Thorin recognise the features that had been immortalised in stone before him. Not Thror, as might have been expected, or Thráin, who should have followed him, but _Frerin_. His younger brother crouched on one bent knee, his hands cupped together before him, a familiar, gently mischevious smile adorning his face. At the base of the statue a small recess had been carved for the flame Thorin still gripped in his hands, and he placed it even as he read the inscription that accompanied the niche.

“The People’s Prince,” Dís said aloud, if softly, before he could find his voice. “The name they gave him.”

It was fitting, Thorin thought, even as he reached to slip an arm about her shoulders in comfort. Frerin had lived the life of a prince in exile, but he had not let a lack of royal trappings stop him from finding ways to ease the suffering of his people. His offerings had been less material than Thorin’s determined toil, but they had carried value of their own, and had become a cherished memory for many of the prince who had given his life alongside so many of his kinsmen.

Yes, if any of Thror’s line had earned the honour of standing vigil over the fallen, it was Thráin’s younger son.

Even as he thought as much, however, Kíli stepped forward to stand before the carved figure, lifting a wrapped object to place it in the statue’s cupped hands. Gently, then, he tugged back the coverings, letting the Arkenstone’s radiance shine forth in a place that had been built to receive it.

The result was nothing short of breathtaking.

Thorin remembered the way the King’s Jewel had once shone above his grandfather’s crowned head, brighter than even the torches that lit Erebor from within. That brilliance was nothing compared to the sheer magic master artisans had conjured in this room, a sight he would never have been able to imagine had he not seen it for himself.

Light reflected everywhere, bouncing off hidden veins in the walls and ceiling, twisting around pillars and sweeping the curvature of the room. Scores of tiny flames that had once been the only source of luminescence were suddenly dimmed, outshone by a greater glow. The air itself seemed to be shimmering, bathing all in an ethereal light that did not lose any of its enchantment when eyes adjusted to the brightness and harsh beauty became a softer charm.

From all around him, Thorin could hear gentle murmurs of wonderment as quiet grief made way for respectful reverence. The gesture was understood, the unspoken words acknowledged, and Thorin let his gaze come to rest upon the Arkenstone again, lying in a space that had clearly been made for it. He looked up at his brother’s likeness, and in the play of light could almost imagine that those eyes were a familiar, silver-flecked blue, ignoring the treasure grasped in hand to focus on the elder Durin instead.

Somehow, that was fitting too.

 

**~The Heart of Erebor~**

 

In the days following the memorial the mood within Erebor rapidly shifted from one of somber recollection to swiftly mounting excitement. The forthcoming coronation had _been_ forthcoming for so long that the realisation it was nearly upon them was causing an air of jubilation to sweep through the mountain, so that even those madly rushing to complete last minute tasks did so with a bounce in their steps. Kíli, for his part, was not quite so enthusiastic, mostly due to the fact the Council had decided that, with Thorin about to officially adopt his title of king, it was past time his nephews started looking like the princes they were supposed to be.

Fíli had taken that request in stride, as he had done with most of the more superfluous changes that had come with their new roles, and then proceeded to derive great amusement from his younger brother’s suffering. He had _not_ found it quite as entertaining when Dori had raised the matter of proper royal etiquette when one was no longer a prince in exile, insisting whatever lessons they had learned in Ered Luin needed to be revised, at the very least, before they embarassed themselves before esteemed guests. Nori was quick to suggest that Dori would not have been half so concerned about the princes’ manners if he was not worried his own would not be up to par, which had predictably led to a rather snappish remark about Nori’s lack of decorum.

Spared Dori’s scrutiny for the time being, Fíli and Kíli had avoided the eldest of the three brothers ever since, though they had found the time to sit for Ori, who was quite beside himself over having been appointed the official Court Painter for the coronation. Despite the fact he had been sketching all the members of the Company since they first set out from the Shire, the budding artist insisted he now needed practice, and was seizing every chance he could to get it.

If Ori was overwhelmed, as royal chef Bombur was in his element. He had all but kidnapped Bilbo to help him in planning the banquet that would follow the official ceremony, and the voice that had been so seldom heard on their journey was now a ceaseless hum audible to anyone who drew near the kitchens. The big dwarf’s family had been one of the first to make the journey from Ered Luin to Erebor, and it was rare now to see Bombur about without one of his numerous children at his heels or lending a hand as he worked.

Bofur, too, had been hard at work, along with Tyrth and many more of Ered Luin’s experienced delvers. The throne room had been a mess still when they reclaimed Erebor for good, and it had been no easy thing to prepare it for a King’s homecoming. True to his nature, Bofur had remained ever cheerful throughout. Despite the fact the sounds of the restoration work still echoed throughout the mountain from dawn to well past dusk, he assured anyone who asked that the task would be finished when the time came.

Thorin had placed Gloin in charge of the treasury, and the gifts that were to be offered to those who had made his ascension possible. Fíli had jested afterwards that he thought the Firebeard had moved his bedchambers down into the vaults, so seldom was he seen outside its walls. Oin periodically checked on his progress, or sent young Gimli to do the same, but ultimately left him be. After all, he told Kíli one evening in a conspiratorial tone, if Gloin wanted to wile his days away counting every last coin in Erebor’s treasury, then who was he to stop him?

In the end it was Bifur who had surprised Kíli the most, choosing to spend most of his time outside of the underground kingdom, usually in Dale itself. The wounded dwarf had taken up his toymaking once again, and the baubles he crafted had proved popular amongst the city’s children. Rin went with him often, tired of the continuing preparations in Erebor, and Kíli had managed to convince Fíli to do the same on occasion. His elder brother was always better for it, and could not deny that spending time in their neighboring city was beneficial to continuing relations between the two.

It was Kíli’s hope such distractions would not be necessary for much longer. Not with the first of Thorin’s guests arriving on Erebor’s doorstep and the ridiculous amount of pomp and formality that surrounded any coronation soon to reach its apex before dying – he hoped – a swift and painless death. Once the crown was firmly settled on his uncle’s head he felt certain things would calm down enough for more personal matters to be addressed. For now, they all had their roles to play, and his included taking part in welcoming those who had been invited to attend into Erebor.

They came in a trickle at first, a few noble lords from the Iron Hills, an envoy from one of the other Seven Houses, a man from Gondor, of all places, who could not explain how the Lord Steward had known of the impending coronation yet offered his respects regardless. Kíli suspected Gandalf’s meddling again, but, as Fíli pointed out, Erebor would resume trade with the Southern Kingdom as soon as it was in a position to do so, in which case having an unexpected emissary under their roof was no real hardship. As though summoned by the very thought of him, Gandalf, too, was amongst the early arrivals, carrying Beorn’s apologies and offering no explanation for his prolonged absence.

Honestly, Kíli would have been disappointed if he had.

Other arrivals preceded and followed the wizard, but it was not until the very eve of the coronation that the guests Kíli had truly been waiting for arrived. With Roac’s forewarning of their approach he was at the gate to greet them before the gatewatch sent word, the wide grin on his face utterly at odds with the official raiment the Council had decided he must wear.

The twins came first, clattering across the drawbridge at reckless speed, ignoring the startled, wary looks amongst some of the guardsmen as they reined to an abrupt halt. Elrohir was the first to dismount, all but flying out of his saddle, and the first to spot Kíli, a bright smile breaking through what had not been a particularly solemn countenance to begin with.

“Kíli!” he said, then turned around to address Elladan, who had left his seat at a far steadier pace. “No need for decorum, ‘Dan, they have sent a fellow miscreant to greet us.”

Ignoring Elrohir with the surety of decades of practice, Elladan approached in a far more stately manner, offering Kíli a respectful bow of his head. “We were honoured to receive your uncle’s invitation, Prince Kíli. Rivendell welcomes this chance to renew the friendships of old.”

“Never mind that,” Elrohir interrupted, producing an envelope from the folds of his cloak and handing it over with a flourish. “From Estel,” he explained, at Kíli’s look of confusion. “And I am to pass on his regards.”

“He wanted dearly to come with us,” Elladan added. “But Ada ruled such a journey to be too dangerous, and he has grown too big to smuggle out in our saddlebags.”

“Otherwise he would have been here for certain,” Elrohir assured. “No matter what Ada’s opinion on the matter might be. As it is, we are to carry your response with us when we leave.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Apparently, our account of the coronation alone will not be trusted.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Kíli laughed, honestly delighted that the pair of them did not seem to have changed in the slightest. Their company during his stay in Rivendell had been as much of a boon as the valley’s healing nature.

“Neither could we,” Elladan retorted smoothly. “But there is no accounting for the fickleness of children.”

Kíli did not have time to come up with a fittingly humorous response to that, his attention snared by the sound of hoofbeats on the bridge as the remainder of the twins’ party arrived at a markedly more sedate pace than their two foreriders. Elrond himself rode at the head of the procession, and Kíli moved to offer a more official greeting to the Lord of Imladris. As it happened he need not have bothered, for Thorin and Fíli were both upon the floor by the time their guests came to a halt.

Dismounting with all the regal grace of his kind, Elrond moved to meet his host, but Thorin, to the great shock of all the sentries within hearing, was swifter to the mark.

“Welcome, Lord Elrond, to the Kingdom of Erebor.” There was genuine warmth in Thorin’s voice, and that, too, drew stares from their audience. Their King’s fierce distrust of elven kind was well known, and yet here he was, addressing one of the same with far more than bare civility. Kíli exchanged a knowing glance with Fíli behind Thorin, but said nothing. “I am pleased to honour anew the friendship that once existed between our two realms.”

“It gladdens me to see the Line of Durin restored to their rightful home,” Elrond replied in kind. “The East has suffered too long in your absence, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“A state of affairs I hope to remedy in due time.”

So saying, Thorin withdrew a step to the side, allowing his nephews to pay their own respects. Elrond accepted their words of welcome with a polite acknowledgement, but his gaze was the keen and piercing stare of a healer. Kíli found himself resisting the absurd urge to fidget beneath that steely regard, even as his mind disobligingly dredged up memories of all the various ways he and his brother had brought themselves to harm since leaving the safety of Rivendell.

Thankfully, Thorin was quick to draw Elrond’s attention back to himself, the two leaders moving deeper within the mountain as their polite discussion turned to more political matters. Only then did Kíli realise that two of Elrond’s retinue were not of his own kin.

“Nárran!” he exclaimed as the Dúnedain stepped forward. “And Ana. You came.”

“Well met, Prince Kíli,” the ranger said, his grim features softened a little by the barest hint of a smile. “Prince Fíli. It is good to see you both so hale and hearty.”

“You as well,” Fíli replied, remembering before Kíli did the tale of misfortune they had heard before leaving Rivendell. “We were told all was not well with your people after we parted company.”

“No more or less than usual.” Nárran shrugged, his words at odds with the shadow that flitted briefly across his face. “We live yet.”

“In an age of wonders,” Ana added, casting her husband a wry look. “Where kings invite strange guests beneath their roofs.”

“Now, now, Ana,” Elrohir, who, along with Elladan, had not departed with the rest of Elrond’s escort, chided her. “We may be strange, but there is no need to go proclaiming it to all and sundry.”

“No, indeed,” the woman answered, amusement colouring her words. “You do an admirable job of that yourselves.”

“Enough of that, I think,” Elladan interceded before his brother could retaliate, turning to Fíli. “It has been a long journey, my friend. If there is somewhere we might rinse away the dust of the road and make ourselves properly presentable?”

“Of course.”

Gesturing with one hand, Fíli began to lead the foursome away, so that it was Kíli Fengari approached, the head guard wearing a look the young prince could not quite put a name too.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, Your Highness,” he said slowly, more out of confusion than doubt. “But what in Durin’s name was all of that?”

“A long story,” Kíli replied, a grin forming on his face as he shook his head. “I will tell it to you some other time.”


End file.
